A Nose for Lucy
by CSI Clue
Summary: AU for X-Men 3; Hank McCoy meets a woman with an unusual variation of the Mutant Gene
1. Chapter 1

_(The events in this story take place in an AU, six months before the events of the movie X-Men 3: The Last Stand. I am relying primarily on the movieverse, but do have some touchstones with comic canon throughout.)_

A Nose for Lucy

Autumn had blown in with overly windy and wet weather; the grounds of the Xavier school were filled with damp leaves and a chill hung in the air. From the window of his office, Professor Charles Xavier looked out at the blustery gray sky and let his thoughts drift to the west. Faintly, distantly, as a tiny point of light on the horizon, he found her.

Still there.

The note was short, just as all the others had been, and he smiled to himself as he read her message blinking on his screen.

_C:_

_I'm sending you two more, from Arizona. The girl is quite powerful but fully understands the need to lay low. The boy is going to need help; his autism is complicating matters. They'll be on the Greyhound from the Atlanta hub in two days. I'll be moving on to New Mexico within a few days, and I don't mean to sound alarmist, but I'm being watched again. Hope all is well with you and ours._

_L._

Calmly he typed a reply, the keyboard clacking away even though his hands remained folded in his lap.

_L:_

_I'll have someone meet them at the bus station as usual, and thank you for the note about the autism—we'll line up someone to begin the boy's file at once. If the watchers are the same ones as before then move with discretion, or come East—we here at the school would be happy to finally meet you and offer you a sanctuary for a while—the invitation is always open to you, and I hope your ankle is better._

_C._

Carefully he hit 'send' and the Email sped on its way just as a knock at his study door sounded. Xavier smiled.

"Come in, Hank."

The doorway was filled with the broad shoulders and furry presence of Hank McCoy; he stood in a lab coat specially made to fit his bulk. Carefully he smiled and pushed up his glasses.

"Charles—I'm sorry to bother you, but this latest applicant for Jean's position bothers me and I wanted to ask your opinion on his CRV."

"The Finnish candidate? Yes, I'm a little concerned about his stint in Oslo—it doesn't quite ring true," Charles agreed, making the wheelchair roll around the desk. "I'm not sure if he's trying to impress us, or hide something else in his past. Let's make some discreet inquiries before we offer an interview, shall we?"

"My very thoughts—as you're probably well aware," Hank replied gently. He sighed for a moment. "It's so very hard to consider filling this spot as it is without the added complications of background checks."

"A necessary evil these days," Charles agreed softly. "And more's the pity, simply being a mutant isn't any guarantee that there isn't a hidden agenda at work. Still, there are a few bright spots. We're getting two new students from our agent out west."

"Ahhh, bounty from the ever-mysterious L, I take it. When and where?"

"Greyhound station, two days from now. She writes that the boy is autistic, which does complicate matters a bit, but at least we know it ahead of time."

Hank smiled, nodding. "Her assessments have been helpful. Has her ankle healed yet?"

Charles gave a shrug. "I didn't sense any pain this time around, but she does say she's being watched again and I fear for her safety. I wish we could convince her to come in and allow herself some time to be among her own kind."

Hank pursed his lips for a moment, then softly murmured, "I have a meeting with the Coalition of Mutant Affairs in Denver this week. It wouldn't be any trouble to make a side trip to Arizona."

Charles smiled back, his gaze distant. "She'll be in New Mexico by the time you leave. Yes, perhaps that would be beneficial, Hank. In the five years that Ms. L has been sending young mutants to us, we've yet to truly thank her. At the very least you can extend a personal commendation for her efforts and see if there is anything we can do for her in return."

"Consider it done. And I'll begin the inquiries into our Oslo friend here as well," Hank rumbled back.

*** *** ***

Two days after reading the Email confirming the safe arrival of the students, Doctor Lucy San Marco locked up the Mesa Health van and sighed. It would be safe enough in the hospital parking lot, where the surveillance cameras and security guards were duty-bound to keep an eye on it. The other two doctors, Ian Michelson and Londie Red Cloud, had already left, promising to meet her back here in the morning and help take the unwieldy van on the next leg up to Taos Pueblo.

She shivered in the cool night desert air, and relaxed a little, letting her scent shift from motherly doctor to quiet nonentity. Anyone looking at her would have seen a curvy woman of medium height, her dark wavy hair in a neat chignon, silver wire-rimmed glasses framing her heart-shaped face. Lucy wore jeans and a grey sweater with silver buttons, along with several silver and turquoise rings and bracelets, all the better to blend in.

It helped, along with the pheromones. Looking around, she checked her watch and wondered if she should go for some dinner before trying to book a room for the night. Clutching her purse, she considered her options, and decided that Waffle World was probably her best choice. It was still one of the first and best mutant-friendly eateries across the country, and the menu had enough variety to please even her, the queen of picky eaters. Lucy moved to the well-lit foyer of the hospital and pulled out her cell phone, debating whether or not to call again.

It was tempting. Beyond tempting if the truth was told—she'd been out on her own even since graduating high school, zealously guarding her secret; working at hiding it, and later learning to master it. She had watched the rise of mutant awareness and the parallel phobia concerning it, and seen the media coverage of Charles Xavier and Eric Lensherr.

Lucy knew which side of the issue she stood on.

Still, it was hard to trust, even though she'd safely sent nearly fifty youngsters to Charles Xavier. One of the more radical mutants told her she 'wasn't mutant enough' to really be one of them. The accusation still stung, and sometimes Lucy wondered how many others out there were like herself, with far less flashy, less obvious powers. Odds told her a good many were around, trying to fit in one way or another.

She sighed and carefully dialed the number, feeling a hint of paranoia. A machine generated voice asked her to leave a message, and awkwardly, she did. "This is . . . L. I'm going to dinner at Waffle World over on Mesquite drive, so if anyone wants to meet me, I'll be the one in the grey sweater working her way though a stack of silver dollar pancakes with butter and sugar."

Lucy shut the phone, her face red. Right—she sounded like some starving Interstate trucker trying to hook up with a roadside madam. Sheesh. She wished she hadn't left the message, but it was too late now. Sighing, Lucy checked the bus schedule posted on the foyer wall and paced, waiting for the red line and wondering what she was letting herself in for.

*** *** ***

Hank McCoy took a breath before stepping inside the 24 hour restaurant. It had been a hectic day, with sessions and presentations and emails crisscrossing his hours up until now. Fortunately he'd done his homework, and nearly everything on his agenda had been initialed and crossed off, barring this last impromptu meeting.

The soft scent of bacon and pancake batter drifted out to him and he smiled, enjoying the smell. Out of all the places to meet, Hank was amused that L. had chosen Waffle World, one of the ubiquitous landmarks of America. He liked waffles, and appreciated that here at least, he could eat without too many people openly staring at him. Hank pushed the glass door open and stepped inside. There was a little lull for a few seconds; the typical reaction to his appearance in most public places; and then the soft sounds of conversation and cutlery returned. Hank sighed and looked around at the place.

There was a diner counter three quarters filled with people busily eating. One little girl with dragonfly wings was hovering next to her mother, who had her on a safety harness. The man at the far end of the counter had a lizard tail swinging behind him.

Various tables dotted the main floor, and along the far wall stood a row of booths separated by partitions of glass brick. Hank stood for a moment, wondering how best to seek out L. Merely wandering around the dining room seemed slightly rude and possibly intimidating—when the hostess came up to him, smiling warmly, he'd figured out what to do.

"Seating for one?"

"For two, actually. I'm meeting someone here who said she would be wearing a grey sweater and eating silver dollar pancakes," Hank politely told the young woman. The hostess nodded.

"I know right where your party is seated. If you'll just follow me—"

He did, and she led him to the back wall of booths, waving to the last one with a waggle of her fingers. Hank stepped forward, looking at the seated woman just as she glanced up at him and in that first few seconds a wave of rosy red lust washed over him. The sensation was like a somersault underwater, that same giddy stomach rolling feeling only much lower down, and for a moment he actually swayed minutely under the impact.

The woman opened her mouth, and Hank could see the oddest mix of desire and embarrassment on her face, her amber eyes widening in enticing surprise as she choked out, "Oh *damn* you smell wonderful—"

"Ahhh?" Not the most intelligent thing he'd ever said, but Hank was having trouble processing thought at the moment. Then just like that, the lust, the confusion, the giddiness all faded away and he was left staring down into the woman's face while the hostess was poking his shoulder lightly with a menu.

"Our special tonight is the Denver omelet—"

"Yes, thank you, I'll need a few minutes—" Hank murmured politely without looking at her. The seated woman held out her hand to him and he took it, engulfing it in his own, her face red, but her expression bright and determined.

"Sorry about that. Lucy San Marcos."

"Hank McCoy," he replied, standing a moment longer, still holding her hand until she waved with her free one at the seat opposite her, bidding him sit. With slight embarrassment he released his grip on her and sat down, the booth cushions groaning a little under his weight.

He watched as Lucy squeezed her eyes closed tightly and drew in a breath through her mouth. Ever so faintly he began to relax, wondering if she was a psychic, like Charles. Then she opened her eyes and exhaled, still looking slightly troubled, but less startled. "Okay. I've got it handled. You just took me by surprise there."

"I could say the same—" Hank pointed out ruefully. "Was that projection some sort of . . . psychic distraction?" as he spoke he opened the menu and briefly scanned it. Lucy shook her head, looking down at her plate.

"Not psychic, no. My particular ability hasn't got as much to do with the mind as it does the body. The apocrine system more specifically."

"Scent? Fascinating—" Hank looked up sharply at her, smiling enough to show the tips of his fang teeth. Lucy nodded, toying with one of her silver bracelets.

"I did a write-up of myself a few years back, just to document the first hand details, but in a nutshell, I've got a fair amount of control over my pheromones and scent glands. Not only can I adjust my personal aura, but I can also imitate any bio scent I've locked into my hippocampus. I've been working on imitating the odors of non-bio elements, but it's harder to pinpoint. To put it bluntly, I can manipulate others through veromeronasal response. Had enough?"

"Utterly fascinating—" Hank repeated, the menu forgotten. He cocked his head. "Forgive me, but that's an amazing manifestation of the mutant gene. How extensive is your range? How quickly can you change from one scent to another? Do any of your own pheromones affect you yourself? I have a thousand questions now, and—"

Lucy held up a warning hand as the waitress came back, her cheery gaze fading. He managed another polite smile at the server and ordered tersely "Three omelets please, a short stack of pancakes, one side plate of sausage and a glass of milk."

"Gotcha, sir. Toast?"

"Yes, thank you." Hank added. When the waitress had scribbled it all down and headed off, Lucy gave a sigh, looking down at her own plate. "Listen Doctor McCoy—"

"—Hank. Call me Hank," he interrupted her gently. She looked up at him and grinned, cocking her head in acknowledgement.

"—Hank. I'd rather not talk about my . . . gift here in public if it's all right with you. I've just told you more in the last few minutes than I've shared with anyone in years. I'm pretty sure I can trust you, but it's not really my nature, normally. So if you don't mind—" she trailed off with an expression of wry appeal.

He nodded, glad to see her relax a bit when he did so. Carefully Hank fished in the breast pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a sheaf of photos, setting them down on the table. Lucy gave a delighted little crow and picked them up, her expression softening as she recognized face after face. Hank watched her as she examined the photos, talking softly as much to herself as to him. "Oh Geez—Lauralee's getting tall! And Raymundo let his hair grow back! I see Desmond and Skeeter are still into those tacky shirts . . ." Giving her head a shake, she looked up at him, her amber eyes shining. Very softly she added, "Thank you."

"My pleasure," Hank replied, touched at how much the little gesture meant to her. After so many years of sending children to safety it had been a small thing to be able to reassure her they were doing well. Charles had suggested it, and Hank was glad to see his thoughtfulness had paid off. With a tap of one long claw, Hank pointed out a photo in particular.

"Ginger and Ollie are fitting in beautifully. We have therapy going for Ollie now, and although it's early, his response is promising." Pushing his advantage for a moment Hank added, "You ought to come see for yourself."

Lucy glanced up from the picture, smiling at that, a dimple deepening on her left cheek. Hank leaned forward, feeling slightly enthralled when she laughed. "Oh don't tempt me like that—you don't know how much—"

The waitress returned with the toast and milk at that moment; Hank blinked and pulled back, the suspicion dawning on his face as the food was set before him; one glance at his dinner partner confirmed it as she smirked. "You . . . scented me," he accused lightly in the wake of the waitress's retreat.

"Sorry, yes I did. Seeing the kids doing so well had me feeling happy; thought I'd share." Lucy replied, not willing to admit that simply being close to someone who smelled so attractive tended to distract her focus. Hank McCoy carried an appealing blend of clean fur, masculine pheromones and the soft hint of sweet ancient ferns as his base scent. Lucy breathed it in, well aware now that she could find him in a pitch-black room full of strangers. "You have a great aroma, you know—" she blurted.

"Not according to a few of my associates," Hank challenged, remembering pointed comments from Storm during more than one Danger Room session. Lucy bit back another laugh and speared a pancake.

"Yes, well take it from a specialist; the nose knows. So what brings you out west?"

He sighed. "A little of everything. The government feels that there should be field offices for the Department of Mutant Affairs throughout the states, so the merits of that suggestion are being weighed out. Also, we've gotten a number of asylum requests from mutants from other countries so the Justice Department is trying to formulate a policy to cover that situation, and Charles wants me to scout a site for a possible second school out here on the west coast. Did I miss anything?"

"Wow. You can juggle all that and still take time out for dinner?" Lucy asked, impressed. Hank ran a hand across his forehead, giving a tired little sigh.

"Believe me, dinner is the highlight at this point."

The waitress set the three plates down in front of him, along with the glass of milk and side plate of sausage. Hank managed another smile at her, and Lucy was amused to see the girl blush; it was only natural in the face of such a sweet guy.

"Thank you so much, Miss. It looks wonderful."

"Enjoy," the waitress beamed and wandered off. Hank shot another glance at his companion, his expression questioning. Lucy shook her head, knowing exactly what he was thinking.

"That wasn't me—you have oodles of charm apparently."

Hank looked nonplussed. "Oodles?"

"Oodles is a perfectly acceptable unit of measurement," Lucy assured him as she passed the syrup his way. "According to my grandmother, anyway."

"Grandmothers are uncontradictable," Hank solemnly agreed, neatly buttering his toast. "Mine assured me that eating the crusts of my sandwiches would make my hair curly. She would be so proud--"

Lucy smirked, nearly choking on her orange juice. As she moved to wipe her chin with her napkin, she caught sight of a vaguely familiar profile across the restaurant, and the little surge of panic shot through her. Hank looked up, his slightly pointed ears twitching, his nostrils flaring. "What is it?"

"One of the two people I'm pretty sure is watching me. I can always smell them--low-level fear and anticipation mostly; one's a licorice freak and the other smokes Camels. And they're both armed."

"You mentioned being watched," Hank commented gently. "Charles and I have worried about that for a while. The Brotherhood?"

Lucy rubbed her eyes tiredly. "Hank—I'm fairly sure they're spooks. CIA. They suspect I'm recruiting for one side or the other, and seeing you with me now probably confirms it for them."

Instantly a myriad of thoughts flew through Hank's mind, and he frowned in mid-bite of his second omelet. Lucy could see his preoccupation and kept quiet, sensing a shift in his scent; it was drier now, with the hint of old leather books to it.

A thinking smell.

"Unless they can be convinced to associate us in a different way—" he mused thoughtfully, "Some other connection perhaps."

Lucy caught yet another subtle scent change and shot him a slightly disbelieving look. "Friends? Associates? Something a little more personal--that sort of thing, Hank McCoy?"

He kept his gaze down at his plate and spoke in a low voice. "Yes, I know it's a stretch for anyone to credit me with enough good luck to be dating someone like you, but I'm willing to go along with the charade if it throws them—pardon the pun my dear—off the scent."

Lucy laughed, low and slightly surprised, her attention fully on the big blue beast opposite her in the booth. "I bet butter wouldn't melt in your mouth right now."

"You'd lose your bet."

Lucy was silent for a few minutes and concentrated on finishing her meal. She felt pulled between a sense of growing comfort in Hank's presence and nagging worry about the two men following her. Finally she spoke softly, laying her fork down. "You know, they've never hurt me, or even spoken to me. All they do is watch."

"So far," Hank countered, then finished his milk. He absently wiped his upper lip with his napkin while Lucy hid her smirk. When he arched an eyebrow at her she deliberately made her expression bland.

"Sorry, sorry—the mustache was kind of cute. Anyway, I don't think they're going to do anything, but I AM surprised they found me. I guess after two years they know my favorite places in each town."

Hank scowled a little. "They've been watching you for that long?" The thought bothered him; he turned his head in profile, trying to catch a glimpse of the man over his shoulder. Lucy shrugged.

"Off and on—I worry more about them following the kids, to be honest. I don't care if they want to try and hassle me—I can probably handle them—but I don't want the bastards getting a hold of teens who're having a hard enough time dealing puberty AND powers."

"And yet—they haven't. So either they're not trying to interfere or they're not concerned with that aspect of your work. Interesting. Of course, you're only conjecturing that these men are CIA—do you have any proof that they're with the government?"

Lucy opened her mouth, then closed it again, looking startled. Hank gave a nod, and leaned forward once more, his voice a low rumble. "Exactly. I'd like to check up on this situation a little more closely, and to do that I'll need your help. After our dinner I'd like to go somewhere in this town where there are surveillance cameras: a store or mall perhaps, and see if Charles or Logan can tap in and identify your stalkers."

"I don't want any trouble!" Lucy protested, feeling uncomfortable now. "They're not doing anything as far as I can see, and I don't want to lose the opportunity to keep screening kids on my route."

"I don't want that to stop either—but I'd feel a lot better about you doing it if we knew who exactly was watching you," Hank countered, reaching one hand out to catch hers and holding it. The gesture was automatic and gentle; Lucy relaxed at the feel of his big palm.

She let go, just a tiny bit and allowed her natural reaction to tint her scent; Hank's response was instantaneous. His grip tightened around her hand, and a low purr rumbled out from his chest. Lucy blushed, and after a second, he let go, clearing his throat with embarrassment.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, and when they looked up again, it was in perfect synchronization; Lucy laughed.

"Okay, this is just getting silly—Look, I appreciate everything Hank, but I'm fine. I've been taking care of myself for years, and if these tagalongs haven't grabbed me by now, I doubt they're going to make a move tonight."

"Then do me a favor," Hank murmured. "Walk by, and smell him out. That's all I ask—just check and see."

Lucy shot him a perplexed look, but Hank kept his expression serious. She rose up and nodded. "Okay, Doctor McCoy—I'll break a twenty and be back in a moment."

She walked away, and Hank let himself enjoy watching her, even as he tried to tell himself it was all about keeping her safe. Still, the roundness of her backside and the easy swing of her stride sent little pangs of pleasure through his thighs. He wasn't exactly inexperienced in the area of scent himself and to his nose, Lucy San Marco was definitely a warm-blooded woman, ripe and sweet.

Hank closed his eyes and neatly shoved that observation into a distant corner of his brain. Time for fantasizing later—at the moment there were dangers to be considered. He idly stacked the plates and noted when Lucy returned, her expression neutral, but her lips drawn into a thin line. She sat, and he caught a flicker of anxiety in her scent.

"Chloroform. My God, he's carrying chloroform, Hank. He's an idiot—he'll end up either poisoning me, or giving me one hell of a headache," she hissed. Hank gave a nod, his eyes narrowing.

"That's the problem with a culture raised on television—they rarely get chemistry right. Still think it's going to be another run of the mill night?"

Lucy's mouth twisted, and she shot him a slightly angry glare. In it he could see her frustration, and to counter it, he began to fish out his wallet, digging for the tip. Speaking softly again, he sighed. "I'm going to take you somewhere safe, Lucy. Charles would insist along with me on this, and I hope you have enough common sense to agree."

She glanced once more over Hank's shoulder, and finally gave a small nod.


	2. Chapter 2

(The events in this story take place in an AU, six months before the events of the movie _X-Men 3: The Last Stand_. I am relying primarily on the movieverse, but do have some touchstones with comic canon throughout.)

Logan wanted to laugh, but he didn't quite dare; Desmond "Anaconda" Mills was still pretty powerful even if he was only eight. His scowl was as ferocious as he could make it, but the riot of adorable black curls on his head dialed the intimidation factor way down.

"Helena says you can't go in the kitchen."

"Is that right?" Logan shot back, glancing at the boy, "And why would that be?"

"Because she's mopping it and she's already mad about the grape jelly Kitty tracked on the floor," Desmond replied, moving past the man and heading down the hall. "I'm outta here."

Logan waited until the boy disappeared around the corner and then stepped to the kitchen doorway, looking in, hearing a faint and unusual sound. He grinned.

Helena Anderson, House Mother for the Xavier School was indeed mopping the floor, bent over and displaying a finely rounded backside wrapped in a tight pair of cut offs. Logan noted the fringe around the edges, and had an impulse to reach over and tug one of them, just to make her jump. His initial interest had been in getting a beer, but the sight of Helen's ass along with her tied off tee shirt was making the brew a secondary consideration.

She couldn't hear him; her iPod was cranked up, and he recognized the sound as her soft humming along to The Rolling Stones "Under my Thumb." His grin widened; out of all the songs Jagger had ever sung, this one would never apply to Helena. The woman had pride, determination, and the infuriating ability to get her way around a lot of things. Considering she worked in a school full of young and cocky mutants, that was a hell of an accomplishment. He leaned one hand against the doorway, reluctantly looking at the distant fridge at the far end of the kitchen. The floors gleamed. Logan looked at her lovely rounded ass, and within two seconds, Helena spun, glaring at him. She tugged the buds out of her ears.

"Logan, stop leering at me. We've discussed this before."

"You lectured," he corrected gruffly, trying not to grin. "I pretended to listen. But if you're going to stick your booty in tight cutoffs and wave it around, I don't think I'm too out of line in checking it out."

"I'm not waving it around!" Helena protested, her face pink. Logan had an infuriating way of coming off as reasonable even when she knew perfectly well his mangy mood was sheer amusement. She sensed his lust being carefully held back, and his curiosity once more. That, and thirst. "What do you want?"

"Loaded question, doncha think?" came his instant reply. "At the moment I'd settle for a beer though."

Helena looked at the floor and then back up at Logan, her exasperation clear as she blew a loose strand of hair from her eyes. "Oh sure, yeah, those big dirty motorcycle boots won't leave a trace on my clean linoleum." She tried to sound gruff, and for the most part carried it off, but Logan heard a little quaver in her voice that made his grin widen.

"Fine. I can take my boots off."

"You'll get your socks wet."

"What socks?"

"Logan! That's just . . . gross!" she snapped back, trying not to grin herself now. She pulled the bucket over and set the mop against the wall, then looked down at the damp towel she was standing on. "If I had another one, you could sort of walk it over, but I don't. So you're NOT coming in the kitchen."

"I. Want. A. Beer," he rumbled, not quite as amused now. Helena shook her head.

"You shall not pass."

"That's what YOU think." Moving swiftly he reached over his shoulders and peeled off his shirt, throwing it on the floor. Helena gaped at it, and moved to pick it up, unprepared for the strong arms that encircled her waist and hauled her up. She gave a yelp that was cut off by her solar plexus hitting Logan's shoulder and driving the breath from her. He held her up over his bare shoulder and stepped onto the shirt, laughing low.

"Gandalf you aren't, honey. Since I don't want you chasing me and messing up your pretty floor, I'll just take you along. Want a beer?"

"Put . . . me . . ." Helena gasped, "Down!" It was hard for her to speak; not only had she hit his shoulder hard, the sudden sensory input of his furry bare skin against her exposed stomach and thighs made it hard to concentrate, Logan shook his head, his hair brushing the side of her waist.

"I will, eventually. Come on—" He shuffled across the floor, his shirt wiping along the linoleum, one arm looped easily over his shoulder, keeping her draped there. Wisely she'd stopped struggling, but the rounded swell of her butt against the side of his face had him grinning. "Ya know, we're sort of dancing cheek to cheek here—"

"Logan---" Helena growled, trying not to let her smirk show in her voice. It was a terrible pun, but accurate. She braced her hands down his back, justifying that she needed to so she wouldn't fall off. Never mind that the man had muscles, warm and hard flexing with every step. She tried not to think about that, but after two more steps the man under her rumbled.

"Oooh a massage too—this trip to the kitchen is definitely getting better all the time."

"I'm NOT massaging you, I'm trying not to fall off!" Helena protested, flushing pink. Logan laughed.

"You're not gonna fall. I'm not evil enough—or stupid enough-- to drop you," came his assurance. He'd crossed the wet linoleum, dragging his shirt under his shuffling boots. When Logan reached the far side, he gently set Helena down on the counter next to the refrigerator. "There, sitting pretty, right?"

"Sitting anyway," she agreed, still blushing a bit. Logan yanked open the door just as his cell phone rang; lazily he pulled it out and flipped it open.

"Yeah?"

"Logan. I need some help," Hank murmured firmly.

As he fished along the shelves for a beer, Logan gave a grunt to indicate he was still listening.

"I have a guest coming back with me and I need to have Charles make arrangements with her current employer in a manner that diverts suspicion. I also need a listing of any information you can get on mutant . . . recruitment . . . programs being run covertly by the government. I'm too high profile to do any digging at the moment particularly while on the road."

Logan's nostrils flared for a moment, and his hand on the beer tightened. "Just great. Spooks blackbagging us now—anything else, Blue?"

"I'd suggest being cautious on any trips into town until we find more on whatever the program is that might be underway. I have—" Hank's voice grew grimmer, "—A few individuals to deal with here."

"Yeah? Well deal 'em one for me. I'll get on it and get back to you," Logan muttered, flipping the phone shut. He absently twisted the cap off the beer and passed it to Helena, who took it and frowned when he moved to flip the cap over his shoulder. He shoved it in his pocket instead.

"You're pissed, and it's not about the floor," she commented. "Seriously pissed." Carefully Helena took a deep swig, swallowing hard, and Logan watched her throat as she did so, appreciating the beautiful lines of her neck.

"That I am. Blue thinks there's a little move by the government to snatch mutants, and I wouldn't be a damned bit surprised to find out it's true." He pulled out another bottle and scowled at it for a long, considering moment. "Never heard of this brand."

"Try it," Helena murmured. "You might like it."

*** *** ***

Together, they stepped out of Waffle World into the night. A breeze blew up along the streets, moving the heat along, and Lucy leaned against Hank, her voice low. "The van--"

"*My* car," Hank countered. "A health fair van is hardly discreet, and if we're followed, all they'll find from the license plate is that my vehicle a rental."

"You're infuriatingly logical," Lucy sighed, fishing for her cell phone. "I suppose I should let Ian and Londie know--"

"Not yet," Hank warned softly. "Your phone may be tapped. Let's get somewhere safe first." He offered the crook of his arm, his smile gentle, and Lucy linked her own into it, her momentary annoyance fading under his courtesy and concern.

There was nothing but sincerity in his comforting scent, and she trusted that. Carefully she tucked her cell phone away, sighing. "Very well. Lead on, McCoy."

He chuckled, and as they passed under a streetlight, she noted he was slightly red. "This is . . . very unlike me," he confessed. "I would like it on the record that I'm not in the habit of escorting dinner companions back to my hotel room."

"Yes, well I don't *let* myself be escorted back to hotel rooms," Lucy informed him gently, "but I'm not thrilled about being grabbed, choloroformed and thrown into the backs of vans, either."

Hank gave a little growl. "Certainly that will never happen on my watch." His utter conviction made Lucy smile again, and she looked over her shoulder, seeing no one behind them as they strode along the sidewalk. They said nothing further until Hank had helped her into his car and they were pulling away from the parking lot.

He sighed. "We *are* being followed; I thought we would be."

"Are you sure?" Even as she asked it, Lucy shrank down in the passenger seat, feeling her anxiety increase. Hank reached over one large blue hand, lightly patting hers.

"We don't have far to go, and we'll be safe with other people around. You can call your associates and reassure them from the hotel," Hank told her quietly. "Although to be honest, it might be better to stay with me now that we've been seen together."

"I can't do that!" Lucy protested automatically. She could smell a tinge of worry on Hank, and knew she was reacting to it; closing her eyes, Lucy worked to control her tension. She knew she'd succeeded when Hank sighed, his big hands loosening on the wheel. "Sorry—I just meant—that's a bit extreme, isn't it?"

"Doctor San Marcos—Lucy—you're one of us," he told her quietly. "Not just a mutant, but also part of what Charles, I and the others are working for. You've been helping us for years, and you matter very much, so I for one am *not* about to allow you to fall victim to the heinous intent of those men."

She turned to look at him, mouth slightly ajar, and before she saw it, Lucy caught the scent of his blush, warm and earnest.

"My God, they really don't *make* them like you anymore, Hank McCoy," Lucy murmured, feeling a flush of admiration and amusement.

Even in the dim light of the car, she could sense his blush deepening, but he merely smiled and drove on.

The Double Tree Inn was brightly lit, with a few people in the main lobby. A few looked up at them as they walked in, but Hank paid no attention and steered Lucy to the bank of elevators on the far side, making sure they weren't moving too slowly or too quickly. The first car was full, but the second was empty, and they stepped in together. Hank sighed and punched the button for the sixteenth floor. "Are you all right?"

"Nervous," Lucy admitted, although she tried to hold back the scent. "Hank—I don't . . ."

"There are two beds, and in any case I'm prepared to stay awake tonight," he rumbled. "I have more than enough paperwork as it is."

"No, I didn't mean," she began quietly as the car reached the right floor and the doors opened, "that I'm not grateful, but I don't want to be an imposition. I can check into my *own* room, you know."

"That would require your credit card, which is traceable," Hank pointed out gently. "Believe me, having a guest is no imposition." He caught her gaze and held it. "You *can* trust me, Lucy."

She flushed. "I know. I just—all of this is sort of overwhelming. I'm used to staying under the radar and not being . . ."

"Hunted?" Hank filled in, stepping out of the elevator. "I understand, but the situation has changed, my dear."

His room was one of the larger suites. Lucy stepped inside, noting the living room area with comfortable chairs, and felt better about the space. She watched as Hank hung his coat up and loosened his tie, sighing a bit. "Please, make yourself comfortable. My phone—" He handed her his cell, a slightly larger model than Lucy had seen before. "Check in with your colleagues—I insist."

"Thanks." She took the phone from him and moved off, finding the bathroom and dialing away. When she emerged a while later, Hank was seated at the table near the window, already engrossed in a pile of papers and files. He looked up, over the rim of his reading glasses, flashing Lucy a quick smile, and she thought he looked unexpectedly adorable.

She let her scent say so, and seeing Hank clear his throat made her smirk.

"I told Ian I had an emergency come up and that I'd check in with him tomorrow about my plans. He and Londie should be able to handle the rest of the Health Faire—they both owe me favors. What I *don't* know is what those plans are, Hank McCoy."

He nodded. "I've sent an Email to Charles, and he's working now to find out exactly who your potential assailants are; until we hear back, I'd rather we stayed together."

Lucy nodded and let her glance drop to the papers in front on Hank. "Anything I can help with?"

He hesitated, then perked up. "Actually, yes. I'd like your input on our current healthcare set-up at the school, with a particular eye on what could be improved or expanded. And after that, what long-range plans would you suggest for the transition from pediatric care to standard adult care for mutants?"

Lucy blinked. "Are you serious, Hank?"

He looked at her, and managed a wry look. "Utterly. I can't think of anyone more qualified to offer the insights. And while you do _that_, I might be able to get a handle on some of these asylum requests."

She took a breath, savoring his old book scent again, and settled into the chair opposite him. "All right then, but I warn you; you may not agree with some of my ideas."

"My dear, I relish the opportunity for debate," he assured her, and handed over a thick folder.

*** *** ***

They worked in tandem long into the early hours of the morning, conferring, discussing, and occasionally disagreeing over the finer points of curriculum, preventative medicine and health care. Lucy enjoyed the evening; Hank had a ferocious intellect and good insights, sprinkled through with wit and compassion. He _listened _so intently that she got a little self-conscious at times, but she appreciated the chance to air a few ideas she had on mutant pediatrics with someone who understood both medicine and the unique status of the patients.

It felt good, she realized, to be able to relax with someone without having to guard her every reaction. Lucy hadn't realized how restricted she'd kept herself, and the evening was a bit of a revelation.

For his part, Hank was quietly, deeply impressed. Lucy San Marcos was talking her way into being offered the post of chief physician at Xavier's school without even realizing it, and Hank suspected Charles would agree once he'd met her. It was clear that she not only understood the delicacy of treating mutants, but also had a working and fundamental understanding of children and young adults. Her advocacy for them came through time and time again, and her suggestions were sound.

By two in the morning, Hank realized they'd not only drafted out a fully revised health care intake for new school patients, but also had a good start on a revised health curriculum as well. Guiltily he stifled a yawn and reached over to pat Lucy's hand. "I suggest we pack this up and get some sleep, Lucy. I have a luncheon with the lieutenant governor about a state field office, and after that, we have a plane to catch to New York."

"We?" she mumbled. "I wish I had a toothbrush."

"We. I haven't heard back from Charles yet," Hank reminded her, glancing at the open laptop. "Let us compromise. Sleep now, then perhaps shop for some necessities for you in the morning and see if any messages come in."

"I suppose you're right, "Lucy covered a yawn of her own with her palm. "E-excuse me."

"Sleep," Hank urged. "I will take the bed near the door. Do you need the light on?"

Lucy rolled her eyes, smiling. "No, I'm fine with the dark, and I appreciate everything, even if I'm not always clear about saying so." She reached out and lightly touched his hand; the contact gentle and warm. Hank nodded.

It was a little awkward; Lucy stripped down to her underwear in the bathroom and came out wrapped in a towel, sliding between the covers and peeling the towel off once she was in bed. Hank had put out the 'do not disturb' sign and was padding around barefoot, fishing out pajama bottoms from his suitcase. He took his turn in the bathroom and returned, looking slightly self-conscious in all his bare-chested glory. "Sorry about this—"

"You have nothing to apologize for," Lucy murmured firmly. "Honestly, I *am* a doctor; I have seen chests before."

This seemed to mollify him; Hank managed a sheepish look before moving to his bed and climbing in with a grateful groan even as the box spring under him creaked. Lucy reached over to set her glasses down and flick out the light, her voice soft. "Goodnight, Hank."

"Goodnight, my dear," he murmured, settling down in the dark.


	3. Chapter 3

Logan watched Helena pour pancake batter on the griddle in expert circles, moving gracefully in the kitchen, clad today in red Capri pants and some sort of peasant blouse. Frankly he liked the way it gapped in tantalizing fashion every time she bent over, affording him nice glimpses of her cleavage.

There were advantages to stopping in at the school, Logan mused to himself. Definite advantages.

"More coffee?"

"Yeah. Please," he added, holding out his cup. Helena took it and moved to the percolator. She filled the mug and brought it back, and when Helena handed it to him, her fingers brushed his.

She jumped. "Sorry!"

He caught the cup and set it down, shooting her a sharp look. "Hey—are you okay?"

She hesitated, and Logan rose up, following her as she moved to flip the pancakes, her motions slightly agitated. "Since you're asking, no, I'm not totally okay, but I'm working on it, all right? How many pancakes do you want?"

"Four," Logan responded automatically. "And you need to tell me about the 'not all right' part along with those."

"Logan—"

"You can tell me here and now, or I can dog your steps all day until you do," he assured her in a low voice. "I've got time."

Helena stared at him; Logan stared back just as impassively, but one corner of his mouth was quirking a bit. Not out of disrespect for her; more an acknowledgement that he meant what he said.

"My ex is strong-arming me for half my wages, to put it in a nutshell," Helena confessed. "I got the notice yesterday."

Logan winced. "The asshole?"

"Language," Helena chided softly, looking over his shoulder. None of the students were up yet, but she didn't want the younger ones hearing his accurate assessment of her former husband. "But . . . yeah."

"So he actually thinks he can use the courts to chisel money from you?"

"That's about the size of it. He was never interested in the alimony agreement until I got the job here, and I swear it's out of sheer spite," Helena admitted, using a spatula to turn the pancakes.

"He's a dick," Logan grunted, leaning over her shoulder to watch. "You're *not* going to pay him, right?"

"I may not have a choice," Helena admitted softly. "I need to talk to a lawyer and see what the facts are."

"The facts are that he's a dick and doesn't deserve a _dime _of your hard-earned money," Logan pointed out, "and if he needs dissuasion, I'd be more than happy to take it up with him."

"It's not going to come to that," Helena announced, scooping up the pancakes and loading them onto a plate. "Here. Syrup's on the table along with the butter."

Logan glanced at the table and sighed. "That's not _real _maple you know. That's dressed-up corn syrup. I've had the real stuff and it's better."

"It's also eleven bucks a bottle," Helena pointed out. "Try keeping _that_ in stock with a houseful of hungry kids."

He snorted, settled himself at the table and reached for the butter. "You win. So when do you need a ride into town?"

Helena looked startled. "I . . . you don't need to give me a ride."

"I don't *need* to, but I'm going to. I have to go pick up some parts for the bike, and I promised Xavier I'd look into some shingles for that bungalow out on the edge of the property. He says we're going to be getting a guest soon."

Helena poured more batter. "An adult?"

"Apparently. Someone coming in with Blue. Any orange juice?"

"Here," Helena brought over a carton, her look making it clear that Logan could put it away when he was done.

He laughed. "While we're in town, I'll pick us up a bottle of _real_ maple syrup. You can hide it, along with the beer."

Helena blushed; the mention of beer brought back some memories of the night before, and the flirting they'd done over their bottles. She'd gotten slightly giggly; a situation that had seemed to fascinate Logan. By the time they'd said goodnight she'd been close to kissing him, and sensed he'd wanted it very much.

But they hadn't. Now he was wolfing down pancakes like a starving man, and while that was gratifying to see, Helena felt it didn't quite compensate for what might have happened.

Logan shot her a look over his fork and winked; Helena blushed, turning back to the stove, feeling slightly giddy.

*** *** ***

Hank was awake. He breathed slowly, taking in the scents of the room, feeling a sense of pleasure in finding Lucy's perfume drifting on the air conditioning. Rolling over quietly, he looked at the other bed.

It was empty. Lucy was half-dressed, standing with her back to him, combing her hair and humming. He didn't recognize the tune, but the pretty imagery of her grooming against the pale light coming through the curtains made for a lovely sight.

Hank suppressed a purr, but it was difficult; almost as difficult as suppressing other, more basic responses.

Lucy froze. "You're awake," she called over her shoulder. "I'll just . . ." Not finishing the statement, she hurried into the bathroom and out of sight as Hank cursed himself for scaring her off. He hadn't meant to startle her. With a sigh, he got up himself and reached for the phone, ordering room service.

She came out fifteen minutes later, dressed and looking apologetic. "Sorry—I'm just . . . well, it's been a while since I've had to share quarters with anyone."

"I understand," Hank told her softly. "No apology necessary. Breakfast is coming, and after that we'll figure out an agenda. I hope you left me a towel?"

Lucy laughed, a little awkwardly. "Yes, several, although I'm not sure that sliver really counts as soap."

"Hardly," Hank agreed. "I have my own, and I won't be long." He intended to be the one opening the door for room service; although it was probably unnecessary, caution was always wise.

When he finally emerged, clean, mostly dry and dressed, he found Lucy perched on the end of her bed, watching the news. Her expression made him narrow his gaze, and as he turned to look at the screen, he heard the newscaster's last words.

" . . . dead. Police have no leads, and anyone with information is urged to call in to the tip hotline at 555-3423. Chuck, what's the weather going to be like?"

"One of my stalkers," Lucy muttered, pointing at the screen. "Hank, it was one of my stalkers. The licorice eater; I recognized his face. They're saying he was found dead in the dumpster behind Waffle World!"

"Really," Hank grunted with concern. He moved to the laptop and flipped it open, booting up as he spoke. "This . . . complicates things. Let me see if we've got anything from Charles and make a call to Aggie."

"Aggie?"

"My secretary," Hank murmured absently. "She's worked for me for six years now and frankly, I'm often frightened of her." Looking up her saw Lucy's skeptical expression and briefly smiled. "That _was_ a joke, my dear. Nonetheless, if anyone can expedite our return to New York, she would be the first on the list."

Lucy took a deep breath. "Maybe it would be wiser for me to go, Hank. I can disappear if I want to; I've been doing it for a very large part of my life."

"You can't," Hank objected. "Think about this objectively, Lucy—if only one of your . . . observers . . . is dead, then the other one may still very well be out there. Now I don't know all the circumstances of this death, but I think it's fair to assume that you may still be a target."

There seemed to be no counter argument to this; Lucy pressed her lips together in a way Hank was beginning to recognize as her display of frustration. Fleetingly he thought of kissing it away and dismissed the thought instantly, before his body could react to such an improper image.

She moved to look over his shoulder as the laptop screen brightened. Hank typed quickly, and reached for his reading glasses as his Email opened up. "Ah yes, here we are—a cipher; Charles insists, for safety's sake—just as I thought. He urges you to come to the school as soon as possible. I don't think he knew about the death before he sent this."

"Most likely not, but I'm sure he knows it now," Lucy sighed, crossing her arms and rubbing her upper arms anxiously. "Hank, I won't lie; I'm scared. Last night was supposed to be a quick, friendly dinner, and now I'm on the run with a man I barely know to a strange destination on the vaguest of invitations!"

"Lucy—" Hank rose up, instinctively reaching for her; she stiffened for a second, and then slowly slid into his enveloping hug.

They stood together for a long, comforting moment, and Hank held Lucy, feeling the press of her body against his, savoring her delicious scent as he waited for the tinge of fear in it to subside.

She wasn't a small woman, and he enjoyed how strong her hug was; how solid and real she felt in his arms. At the same time, the instinct to protect surged in Hank, called up by the warmth growing between them now. He spoke softly against the crown of her head. "I can't give you any explanations, but you've trusted me this far, and I'm honored that you have, my dear. Just a little further, please. Your safety is my personal mission and I promise to escort you to Xavier's school every step of the way myself. In the meantime, I intend to find out exactly who those men were and what happened last night. Will you have faith in me a while longer, Lucy San Marcos?"

The woman in his arms quivered a little, and it took Hank a second to realize she was laughing softly against his shirtfront. "Do I actually have a choice?" Looking up at him, Lucy's expression was a twist of gallows humor and resignation. "Honestly, Hank; I can utterly _smell_ your sincerity, so of course I can trust you. I just . . . this is really out of my realm. I'm not a hero, I'm not a fighter! I'm just a doctor who helps out a child here and there—"

"That is _precisely_ the sort of hero Charles needs out at his school," Hank murmured, not letting her go. "And you _are_ a heroine, believe me. There are plenty of students who miss you even though not one of them ever told us your name."

Lucy blinked; Hank could see tears glistening in her eyes, but she impatiently wiped the heel of one hand across her face. "Why is it you always know the right thing to say?"

A thousand replies came to mind for him, but looking down at her in his arms, Hank found himself stuttering slightly. "I-I-I don't know."

Her scent had changed, he realized, and the relief in it was like a morning breeze through a beautiful desert; tinted with smoky mesquite and spicy sage and the heat of the sun. Hank marveled at how enticing it was.

Lucy gave a sigh and regretfully slipped out of his embrace. "Okay then. What do we do?"

That was the moment that a knock on the door announced room service.

Hank smiled. "We eat breakfast, of course."

*** *** ***

The Lieutenant Governor, Ms. Redondo, didn't mind having an extra guest for lunch, and Hank was pleased that Aggie had called ahead to arrange it. He and Lucy had shopped that morning—an interesting expedition in itself—and now she was dressed in a summer weight suit of light green cotton, looking every inch a respected colleague.

They dined in the leafy shade of the State house cafeteria, and discussed the creation of a Mutant Affairs field office, possibly outside of Santa Fe. The Lieutenant Governor, a compassionate woman with a quiet manner asked pertinent and educated questions all through the meal of empanadas and red rice.

"I'm fairly sure I can get the governor to agree, Doctor McCoy, but we will take some flak, particularly from the anti-mutant faction out there," she sighed. "I'm sure that's the norm."

"Unfortunately," Hank agreed. Lucy cleared her throat slightly, and when they both looked at her, she spoke, her tone soft.

"I think the best idea is to set it up with the same security measures you find with women's shelters, Ms. Redondo. Cameras, gates, and possibly a hidden entrance as well. It's been my unfortunate experience that those seeking shelter are often . . . pursued."

"Agreed," Ms. Redondo nodded. "That will bring up the cost, but there is some private funding that can be tapped for those extra expenses."

"I'm sure donations can be found," Hank agreed firmly.

They finished the leisurely lunch and rose, shaking hands all around; Ms. Redondo smiled again at them. "Thank you so much for a most interesting and hopefully, productive meeting. It was a pleasure to meet you both."

"The pleasure was ours," Hank assured her. They left, and instinctively he fell into step with Lucy as they made their way out of the State house together, talking softly. Lucy stumbled, and Hank looped an arm around her, catching her fall. "Are you all right?"

"Ankle," she grumbled. "I thought it was better, but wearing heels seems to have aggravated it. Sorry to slow you down."

"It's not a problem," Hank assured her gently. "According to Aggie's itinerary, we're due out at the air base to catch the jet, so you won't be on your feet for long."

This proved to be wrong.

The jet was down for unexpected repairs to the electrical system, and a call from Aggie changed the arrangements. After an aggravating session at the airport, several cab rides and a two hour wait at the station, Hank and Lucy finally found themselves aboard an Amtrak sleeper car bound for Chicago.

Hank tried to apologize but Lucy wouldn't let him, and looked around the deluxe bedroom with a nod of approval. "Nicer than I thought it would be. Woo, a shower too. I had no idea these things were this nice."

"They're not bad, if you're not in a tearing hurry to get anywhere," Hank agreed, putting his suitcase in the closet and adding his coat. Lucy's things were packed with his, and it gave him an odd and slightly giddy feeling. She dropped onto one of the upholstered sofas with a little groan of relief. The train hadn't left the station yet, but the last calls were being made, and the afternoon sun was bright through the window.

Hank sat on the sofa opposite and sighed; Lucy reached over to pat his knee. "Hank, I'm sorry the damned airline pitched a bitch about having you on a flight. They're bigots and it kills me that you _nobly_ had to choose other travel arrangements." Her scent was comforting, tinted with magnolia and cotton.

He gave a philosophical shrug. "Given my size, I usually end up paying for two seats most of the time, but not here. Train travel is still very . . . egalitarian. How's your ankle?"

"I need to rewrap it," Lucy told him, propping it up on seat next to his knee. "And take some acetaminophen. How's your head?"

Hank shot her a keen glance. "However did you figure out I had a headache?"

"Stress around the eyes, mostly. And your scent. There's a hint of strain in it, a sort of ozone smell that I know from my own headaches. You're dehydrated. You need some water and a twenty minute nap," she told him in a gentle voice. "Doctor's orders."

"Hmmm," Hank murmured, picking up her foot and setting it on his knee. "Two can play the doctor game, Doctor. Let me do the wrap for you first, and I'll take your advice afterwards."

Lucy hesitated, then nodded. It had been a long day, and while most of it had been enjoyable, the ache in her half-healed ankle along with the aggravating confrontation at the airline desk had left her feeling worn down.

Deep inside her burned a knot of fury at the way Hank had been eyed and treated. The passengers waiting in the chairs has whispered and pointed; someone had taken cell phone pictures of him and worst of all was the bland expression of the ticket clerk announcing that they didn't have accommodations for him at this time in that overly polite tone of voice that could be heard throughout the waiting area.

This was what she knew faced so many of her former patients. This social stigma. This prejudice. And beyond that, Lucy felt a deep sense of personal shame, knowing she was as much a mutant as Hank—

And hid it.

'Passing' as her grandfather used to say. Passing for white, passing for normal; it was all the same. A deliberate ruse to fit in, whether it was at school or work. Hiding heritage and squeezing into the status quo.

She closed her eyes, but her brooding was interrupted by the unexpectedly gentle touch along her left ankle as Hank peeled the loose Ace bandage off and set it aside on the seat. "No discoloration but your anterior ligament looks a bit swollen. I can get some ice—"

"No, no, just . . . wrap it firmly and I'll be fine," Lucy mumbled. Hank was rubbing her foot now, and the pleasure was shockingly good as his warm strong fingers massaged the ball and instep with slow strokes. "Oooohhhthat's nice."

"An excellent way to relieve stress," he replied quietly, and she looked at him with suspicion as he blushed, the faint hint of purple on his cheeks.

"Hank?"

"Sorry. You have . . . very nice feet. I'm not a podophilist," he assured her quickly. "But . . . they are quite nice."

Unexpectedly, Lucy laughed, half out of nervousness, half out of sheer amusement. "And of course you _would_ know the correct name for a foot fetishist."

"Of course," Hank replied. "It's the most common fetish in the world, in fact."

Lucy fought hard to keep her scent from changing; Hank's caresses of her left foot were making her bliss factor climb, and she didn't dare let him know it. "I don't suppose . . . ."

"Yes?" he asked, still concentrating on her foot.

" . . . You would do . . . the other one, too?"

"With pleasure," he rumbled, and reached for her right foot, setting it on his knee as well.

Hank rubbed gently, feeling the delicacy of Lucy's tarsals and metatarsals, concentrating on labeling all of the ligaments and joints and bones. He tried to remember all the Latin names for them in a vain attempt to keep his mind on the medical aspect of what he was doing.

The problem was that sensuality kept getting in the way. Lucy was slumped back against her sofa, eyes closed and fairly boneless now. It delighted him to see her so . . . relaxed.

So tempting.

He masked a sigh, wishing the situation was different. In any other situation, Hank knew he'd take the risk of asking her out. Ever since he and Trish had broken up, Aggie had been harping on him to be more socially active; her not-so-subtle code for dating.

But there was always so much to do, and despite a few possibilities in and around Washington, he'd put all his focus and energy into work. Most of the time Hank didn't mind, but at the moment he couldn't deny that the tactile pleasure in making Lucy sigh was stirring his baser nature. It didn't help either, that the hem of her skirt was now up above her knees, revealing them to be dimpled and very attractive.

He closed his eyes. "I think . . . I'd better wrap you up. Wrap your _ankle_ up," Hank amended. "And see the porter about some bottled water."

"Ummmhmmmm," Lucy murmured. A wave of contented sensuality rose from her; a lush blend of hot peaches and Tabasco that made hunger spike deep in his belly. Hank cleared his throat and reached for the Ace bandage, fumbling with it as he slowly began to wind it around her ankle.

"Hank?"

"Yes?" he managed, feeling a bit more in control now, keeping the wraps neat and even.

"Stop."

"I'm nearly done," he protested.

"Yes, but it's the wrong ankle," Lucy pointed out.

He blinked, and took a breath, glancing at her to find her smirking, the dimple deep on her left cheek. "Damn it."

"That was _my_ fault," Lucy confessed. "I tried to hold back, but you're r_eally_ good at rubbing feet, and it's been a long trip. When I get tired, my . . . control . . . slips a little."

"Yes, well my concentration isn't very good right now either," Hank fibbed, feeling that his awareness was actually razor-sharp in regard to her pheromones and that if he didn't get up and leave in the next few minutes, he'd say or do something acutely embarrassing. "Water."

"Sure," Lucy murmured gently.


	4. Chapter 4

The price of shingles had gone up, and Logan grumbled at the amount, feeling a sense of annoyance. He'd hand-split the damned things himself in past years and while it was time-consuming, it hadn't been a fourth of the price that this store was asking.

Then he realized the last time he'd hand-split shingles, the first World War hadn't even started yet.

"I'll take five crates," Logan sourly decided. "Here." He tossed the school credit card down. The Home Depot clerk picked it up and ran it through, looking bored, while Logan let his gaze turn to the open doors and the street beyond. The day was cool, and although it hadn't rained yet, the scent was in the air.

Logan wondered if he could talk Storm into holding it off at least until the roof was finished. Given that their guest was due in within a few days that wasn't too much to ask, he figured, and he could at least get the bottom shingles down over the most critical areas. As Logan mused about these issues, the clerk handed him the receipt and directed him to the loading area, where the crates were being moved.

It didn't take long to load the crates into the back of the pickup; Logan moved them himself, earning a few astonished glances from the hardware store clerks. He secured the crates and pulled out, heading for First Street, hoping Helena hadn't been waiting too long.

There was a parking space out in front of the law offices and Logan pulled in, feeling lucky for the moment. He parked and climbed out of the cab, looking up and down the street with a practiced eye.

A few people were walking; most of them looking like they'd decided on an early lunch. Logan parked himself on the fender of the truck and watched them for a while as he kept a surreptitious eye on the building in front of him. Three story place with a dentist on the ground floor, a graphic designer on the second, and a family law office on the top, where Helena was probably still talking.

There were a few women passing here and there on the sidewalk; one of them winked at him and he winked back, amused but not interested for the moment. The sun went behind a cloud, and just when Logan was thinking about calling Storm to plead his case, weather wise, he looked up to see Helena coming out of the building.

She wasn't alone. Next to her was a tall blonde in a sports coat and jeans and fake Rolex, muttering something to her as they stepped out.

" . . .Stupid, but I need the money, 'Lena. I know we said it wouldn't come to this, but times have changed and it's a bitch of an economy, you know? The facts are, you have a job and I don't," he announced.

"I have a job because I _hunted_ for one, Blaine. Don't give me that 'nobody's hiring' crap because we both know you haven't even _tried_ to interview since last December," Helena snapped. She turned to see Logan staring, and flushed, moving to calm down. "Logan."

"Helena. And who's this?" he asked, knowing damned well who it was.

The other man straightened up and shot Logan an impatient, dismissing stare. "This is a *private* conversation."

"Logan, this is my ex-husband, Blaine Henderson," Helena mumbled. "Blaine, this is Logan."

"Ohh, you work out at that mutant place too, don't you?" Blaine announced, his smile slightly strained. "Another one of the help."

Logan stared at him dangerously, and Helena moved towards him, her expression worried. "Logan--" she warned in an undertone.

"And you don't work at all; you just hang around sucking blood, is that right?"

"The hell?" Blaine spluttered, glaring at Logan. "That's rich, coming from someone who'll never get above minimum wage in this lifetime!"

"Stop it," Helena hissed at both of them. "Blaine, we have a meeting next week to settle this; until then you're not getting a dime. Logan, I need to get back and get dinner started. Damn it," she sighed, "I left my purse upstairs."

Helena stepped back into the building; Logan continued to stare at Blaine, who glared in return.

"Are you screwing her?" he demanded.

"Every night, four times on weekends," Logan shot back, wishing like hell it was true and praying that Blaine didn't repeat it to Helena.

"Riiiight," came the cynical reply. "I wouldn't put it past her to be slumming, now that she's cut off from the Henderson experience."

"She mentioned that, yeah. Said it was like wading in a kiddie pool full of piss, I think it was," Logan sneered. Something smelled bad about this creep; something more than just cheap aftershave and ego. He breathed in and caught it finally.

Weed. Not smoked, though—green and fresh. Grown.

Logan shifted, turning enough to have the edge if he had to swing a fist. Blaine looked as if he wanted to, and that was fine with him.

"Listen to me, Mr. Logan from the Freak school, I don't like you OR your attitude, but 'Lena owes me and I'm going to collect whether you like it or not. It doesn't matter to me if she's slumming; half of her wages are mine, by _law_, got it?"

"The only thing I've got," Logan growled back, "is the clear understanding that you're a dick-less piece of shit trying to cash in on someone else's hard-earned money, fuckwad."

He was determined not to throw the first punch, but if this asshole made any sort of move, well, Logan was ready. Wouldn't even need claws for a pillow-belly like this one, but unfortunately from the look on his face, it was clear that Helena's ex was too smart to mix it up here on the street.

"I've got better things to do than watch you try and swing your pathetic little prick in front of me," Blaine mocked, slipping on his sunglasses. "Save it for 'Lena; she loves puppet shows." Making a show of checking his watch, he added, "Gotta go; people to see . . . young people."

With a last sneer, Blaine headed off, walking slowly, seemingly unconcerned. Logan knew better; the bitter scent of fear drifted off Blaine like sweat, acrid and sour. Logan watched him with the intensity of a tiger, and only shifted his gaze when he heard Helena coming out of the building.

She gazed at him, her color high; her eyes sharp and bright. "Logan—"

"I didn't hit him," came the defensive reply. "*Wanted* to, but I'm not going to be the one to start it, especially if you're still seeing the lawy—"

"—'Every night, four times on the weekends?'" she interrupted tersely.

Logan felt the rise of heat through his face; he hadn't actually blushed in years, but being caught in this impulsive braggadocio had him flustered. "I . . . I had to say _something!_"

"And that was _it?" _Helena shot back. "Thanks. Thanks a _lot_, Logan."

"Helena," he mumbled, herding her towards the pickup and opening the passenger side door, "I didn't mean it the way it sounds to you, okay? It's . . . a guy thing."

"It's not a 'guy' thing," she growled at him when Logan slipped into the driver's seat and turned the ignition. "It's an 'I'm SO doing your ex' thing just to piss Blaine off and it's not even TRUE, damn it!"

Helena stopped, feeling that she might have implied something in the last part of that, and hoped Logan wouldn't use it against her.

"He needed a reminder of what he lost, all over his smug face," Logan argued, "because whatever else, babe, that douche bag still thinks you're hot. Believe me, I could tell. It pissed me off." Logan snarled.

"So labeling me as your own personal slut is better, somehow?" Helena demanded.

"No!" Logan roared in frustration, gripping the wheel and trying to keep to the speed limit. "It's not that at all! Look—if a guy loses a woman as hot as you are, he's always going to regret it, and feel that he fucked up, okay? When he hears that she's getting it regularly from someone ELSE, that just reminds him that he IS a complete asswipe for not keeping her happy!"

Neither of them spoke for long, tense minutes. Logan kept his eyes on the road. Helena stared at the glove compartment.

Finally, she sighed, and shot him a sidelong glance. "Every night, huh? That would be about six and a half times more a week than I was getting it during my marriage."

Logan's eyebrows went up. "No."

"That's not for public consumption," Helena sighed again, trying not to smile. She relaxed a little. "But you're wrong. Blaine wouldn't care as long as . . ."

" . . . As long as Blaine Jr. got his? Crap, he just went _under_ my lowest evaluation. Honest to Christ, Helena, how did you ever get hooked UP with this cretin?" Logan rumbled, shaking his head in disbelief. He felt a certain sense of relief as well; if she was telling him something as personal as this, then she wasn't really mad anymore.

"He had charm," Helena murmured, "And I needed to hear some of those pretty lies back then, when I was younger."

"You're not _old_. Take it from me," Logan replied knowingly, making the turn towards the school. It was still a few miles away, the towers rising over the trees.

"I'm old enough to know better than to let him get to me," Helena murmured as much to herself as to Logan. "And you know what? Let him stew. He doesn't have to know the truth. If hearing what you said makes him feel like shit, so much the better, right?"

"Atta girl!" Logan cheered, flashing her one of his quick, bright smiles. They were rare, and all the sweeter for that. Helena blushed. After punching in the gate code, he turned the truck down the long driveway, reluctantly reducing their speed. "You're a hell of a lot better than that sewer scum deserves."

*** *** ***

The dining car was half-full when Lucy and Hank made their way in, and despite a few stares, they managed to find a window-side table and settle in. A porter took their dinner orders, and Hank let himself relax a bit as on the other side of the table, Lucy smiled, and patted his hand. "You look better, and your scent is back to normal."

"Dehydration, the bane of the great Southwest," Hank sighed. "I'm grateful you caught it."

She waved a hand lightly. "Comes of growing up in the area, believe me. There's a saying—'water is the first medicine.'"

"So you're from New Mexico?" Hank asked, curious to know more. He looked at Lucy, noting again her dark hair and deep amber eyes, seeing clearly the characteristics of Native American in her features. She pursed her mouth under his gaze, but her scent was gentle.

"Yes. I've lived here most of my life. I was born up in Chi Chi Tai, which is a tiny speck on the map up near Gallup. It's . . . reservation land," Lucy murmured, "Although my dad was Mexican American. "

"I'm Scottish and Irish, mostly," Hank told her in hopes of encouraging further information. "If I'd ended up with green fur, I think my grandparents would have been thrilled to consider me the family pookah."

Lucy laughed. "Now that would be sad, because blue is my favorite color. For the Diné, it represents the sky and the water, both beautiful and essential to life. Blue is a powerful force for good, Henry McCoy—remember that."

He bowed his head for a moment, touched by her words; it had been a long time since anyone had praised him in such a way and the compliment warned his heart. "I shall." Looking up again, Hank added, "Diné?"

"It's what the Navajo call themselves. Means 'the people,'" Lucy murmured, toying with her fork at the place setting. "I was raised by my mother's side of the family. Dad died when I was in high school, drunk driving."

"I'm sorry," Hank whispered, feeling at a loss to cover his concern.

Lucy looked up and her smile was wry. "Me too, but it's been a very long time. Ohhh, dinner's here."

The Porter slid hot plates in front of them; roast beef and potatoes in front of Hank, and grilled trout on rice for Lucy. They both murmured their thanks to the porter and began to eat, concentrating on the food. The scenery through the window showed long shadows stretching out over the desert, and the first purple tints of twilight in the sky as they moved east. Lucy cut her fish up slowly, and ate in small, neat bites.

"Okay, this is pretty good," she admitted. "I'm a bit of a picky eater, but the fish is nice."

"That's wonderful," Hank agreed. "Fish can be tricky at best, so I'm glad yours is to your liking."

"Is your dinner all right?" she asked, peeking over at his plate, which was nearly clean.

Hank nodded, looking slightly guilty. "I seem to have worked up an appetite . . ."

"Given your size, you need more calories, Hank. Here—" She offered the rest of her fish and the rice. "Please take it, so I can get ice cream for dessert?"

"Lucy--"

"Don't make me pull medical rank on you over this," she murmured, handing over her plate. "The last thing I need is a hypoglycemic who towers over me passing out."

"You make an excellent point," Hank sighed, and began to make short work of the rice. "Tell me about yourself—are you . . . oh my stars and garters, I never asked--are you married? Engaged? Committed to someone who even now is worried about you?"

"Chew," Lucy advised through a throaty giggle. "I'm not willing to try the Heimlich on you either, Hank. And in answer to your question, no. I was engaged, briefly, a few years back but it didn't work out." Lucy kept her scent as light as possible; it wasn't fair to let the faint disappointment tint the evening. Ray was long gone with his young dental assistant, and that was life.

"Oh thank goodness," Hank managed, after dutifully chewing. "I would feel quite the cad if I was causing you or your . . . significant other . . . any added distress."

"Rest easy," Lucy murmured, "I would have told you back at Waffle World if there had been . . . complications."

"I'm glad," Hank replied. "Although I suppose that's rather selfish of me. Still—what was your family like? Where did you go to school?"

Bit by bit, over dessert and then coffee, Lucy told him.

"First of all, I'm . . . comfortably well off," she admitted. "My grandfather runs three casinos along the Arizona New Mexico border, and I am entitled to a percentage of the profits, so I never had to push for scholarships or grants through med school."

"Oh," Hank murmured in surprise.

Lucy nodded, touching one of her silver bracelets. "I have two brothers, Joe and Roger; a sister, Anita, and a mother, Louisa, in Gallup. All of them are alcoholics. And so," she told him slowly, "am I, although I haven't had a drink in nearly sixteen years. It's a blend of genetic propensity and culture, and I'm not proud of it, but I'm learning not to deny it either, at least for myself."

Hank was very still; her scent had shifted, and he caught a sorrowful darkness in it, a bitterness threaded through her normally beautiful scent. "Lucy—you need not say a word more," Hank rumbled very softly, his tone compassionate.

She shook her head, her gaze clear and still. "I know, but I'd like to, so you know the truth. I was a normal little reservation kid until I hit puberty and discovered my mutation. After that, I was a wild girl through school, getting by on minimum effort. I shoplifted, and got out of speeding tickets and skipped classes by using my pheromones to manipulate people. It was pretty much that way through college, too, until my sophomore year, Hank."

He slid a hand across the table, and Lucy took it, seeming to find comfort in the warmth of it. She drew in a shuddering breath, smiling apologetically. "Sorry, it's been a long time since I've thought about this. Anyway, I was at a frat party, and I drank, and somewhere along my sixth or seventh beer, I decided to make every guy . . . _want_ me."

"Oh no--" Hank tightened his grip on her fingers. She ruefully nodded.

"Oh yes. With my drunken pheromones, I singlehandedly turned a loud raucous party into a full-fledged orgy aimed at me. Hell, if I hadn't already vomited all over myself, I would have been raped, repeatedly, by every male there. As it was, I was pawed, stripped, groped . . . Not my most shining moment." Lucy paused and whispered, "Still think I'm brilliant?"

"Yes," He answered in a low croak. "You were young and _human_, my dear. It was undeniably a horrific mistake, but clearly you learned from it."

"I did," Lucy nodded, cocking her head. "I promised myself that I would never, _never_ let my disease or my mutant ability put me or anyone else at risk ever again. I went to AA, kept my head down and finished up school and medical school. I never forgot what had happened, and I never will."

"And because of that . . . you help young mutants now," Hank realized. "You deliberately reach out to help those who need it the most. Oh Doctor San Marcos, I am in awe of you."

Lucy blinked behind her glasses, and cleared her throat. "Okay, that's enough of that," she chided in embarrassment. "I'm not up for sainthood or anything here; I just do what I can, the way we all do."

Hank smiled, and gave her hand another very gentle squeeze. "You say that now, but I've got an in with the Pope. We'll get you canonized soon enough."

"An in with the Holy Father?" Lucy couldn't help laughing.

"Absolutely. He's an enormous Redskins fan; I get him a new stadium blanket every year," Hank bluffed. "And one of those annoying foam 'we're number one' fingers."

Lucy laughed again, caught up in the whimsy, and Hank joined her, pleased that his turn to levity had worked. He kept holding her hand, and deep down the tiny sense of the *rightness* about the contact kept growing.

They kept talking. Hank filled her in on his own history, neither highlighting nor glossing over anything, and she asked questions he'd never been asked before, much to his amusement.

"Do you wear clothes out of habit?"

"Habit, consideration and legality; I have no desire to be arrested for indecent exposure."

"How long does it take you to heal?"

"Heel, or heal?" he teased.

Lucy laughed. "Recover from injury; you're no one's trained animal, Hank."

"It's accelerated; but certainly not to the degree that you'll find in a few of my contemporaries at the school," he replied. "And please never assume that simply because our bodies can repair themselves that you're not needed or wanted, Lucy. I think we both understand that there are a myriad of other aspects to mutant care that need to be addressed."

"True," she agreed, "there are many facets to life, mutant or otherwise."

Hank's cell phone rang, and with annoyance he answered it, reluctantly letting go of Lucy's hand to do so. She rose to give him privacy, but Hank shook his head, motioning her to sit again. "Charles."

He launched into Latin, and Lucy shot him a quizzical look, but the shift of his expression took all humor out of the moment. After a few terse questions more, Hank agreed to something and hung up.

"The news isn't good," she predicted as he re-pocketed the phone.

"Not, it is not," Hank agreed glumly. "The deceased gentleman from the front end loader of Waffle World was an FBI agent by the name of Lawrence Brotowski and the . . . gruesome . . . manner of his death indicates strongly that he was killed by someone with mutant abilities."

"And?" Lucy demanded, eyes locked on his, making Hank sigh.

"And this complicates matters, since the FBI isn't at _all _forthcoming as to why their agent was following you, nor where their other agent is at the moment. I don't suppose you've been fomenting overthrowing the government, or—oh damn!"

"Hank?" Lucy blinked. He reached for her hands across the table, keeping is voice low, although they were the only ones left in the dining car. He spoke slowly, but with quiet intensity.

"I believe that federal authorities have been trying to gather evidence to support the erroneous assumption that you are violating the Mann Act by sending juveniles across state lines, my dear."

"What?" Lucy gulped.

"The Mann Act is a federal law that prohibits the transportation of underage persons across state lines for immoral or illegal activities," Hank explained. "It was designed to stop prostitution and white slavery back in the Twenties, and has been used for decades to prosecute a great number of people since then. In this case, your honorable deeds clearly aren't being viewed for what they truly are."

"Oh dear God, I am NOT a White slaver!" Lucy growled in frustration. "Hell, I'm not even _white _myself! This is . . ."

"—Ludicrous, misinformed _bull_shit, yes," Hank assured her with sincerity. "And in any event, they cannot have garnered anything of significance since they've never brought you in."

"But the chloroform? And what happened to the other agent?"

"I don't know," Hank confessed. "I need to get back to Washington and make a few calls. Worrisome too, is the question of precisely _who_ killed Mr. Brotowski."

In a somber mood now, they made their way back to their sleeper car and began to settle down for the night. Lucy dug out the simple pink pajamas she'd bought for herself and changed in the bathroom. When she stepped out, Hank was already in his drawstring pants, unfolding the sofas into the full bed. He motioned to the upper bunk, already pulled down from the wall. "Your airy bower awaits, my dear."

"Um . . ." she looked around for something to stand on; Hank laced his fingers together offering them as a stepladder, and Lucy bit her lip at his simple kindness. The strain of the last two days came rushing in, and Lucy stood there, swaying slightly from the rhythm of the train and the fatigue of the trip, blinking hard and trying not to cry.

Hank froze as Lucy's scent reached him. The despair and loneliness in it were nearly overwhelming, and before he could stop himself, he gathered her into his arms, hugging her close. She clung to him gratefully.

Neither of them spoke, at least not verbally, but Hank held her, breathing in the subtle changes of Lucy's scent as she relaxed against him. He marveled again at how perfectly she fit in his arms, and how comforting it was to shelter her this way. Hank was no great believer in predestination, but he couldn't deny that there was a bond here; a tie to Lucy San Marcos that defied mere coincidence. He cleared his throat, murmuring softly into her hair. "Feeling better, dear one?"

"Much," she sighed. "I _did _tell you that blue is my favorite color, right?"

"You intimated as much, yes," he replied, chuckling. "And I'm glad."

Lucy hugged harder for a moment; savoring the comfort. The fact that Hank McCoy felt as good as he smelled was both wonderful and slightly frightening because she hadn't let her guard down in a very long time; longer than she wanted to admit. Hank listened and hadn't judged her—she could tell that by scent along.

And _what_ a scent, Lucy thought guiltily. Had she been born a mountain lion, this man would be the catnip to draw her from her lair, sweeter, more intoxicating than prey.

It was a strange image, and she laughed against his chest. "I truly need sleep, Hank. My mind is starting to play tricks on me."

"Rest is the best prescription," he agreed, "Let us allow ourselves to be lulled to slumber by the undulations of our transportation."

Lucy reached up one hand and laid a finger across his lips. "Simplify. We'll sleep. And thank you," she added, smiling up at him.


	5. Chapter 5

The view from the roof of the guest cottage was magnificent, Logan thought. He wasn't considering the thick stand of forest on the edge of the property, or the low creek down along the western slope, or even the panorama towards the front lawn and imposing gates to the school. No, his assessment came from the superb perspective he had on the Olympic-sized swimming pool.

Or more specifically, the two women sunning themselves at the side of the pool.

Logan felt that the three sweaty, boring hours he'd spent ripping up old shingles and replacing them with new ones was well-compensated by the sweet sight of Storm and Helena lounging in bikinis down below, oblivious to his frequent gazes.

Yeah, the two of them made him appreciate the beauty of nature all the more, he thought wolfishly.

When Storm had agreed to hold off the rain long enough for him to finish the roof repairs, Logan hadn't suspected she'd use the sunshine herself, but clearly she was, and he was thrilled that she'd talked Helena into it as well. November in upstate New York wasn't generally sunbathing weather, but Logan didn't mind the heat at all, not when it generated such nice compensations.

It dawned on him that Helena in fact, had _spectacular_ compensations, and he edged closer for a better look. The trick was in making it appear natural, so he grabbed a few of the shingles before moving.

Down at poolside, Storm sighed, adjusting her sunglasses. "We're being watched."

Helena glanced around. "I thought everyone was in class?"

"They are. You need to look in another direction, Helena."

She turned to glance behind her. Storm tried not to laugh, and shifted a little on the lounger. "You'll scare him off if you keep searching."

"I don't want to be stared at," Helena grumbled. "I want to enjoy this."

"Try . . . up."

Helena glanced in the indicated direction and noted a very industrious Logan fitting shingles on the roof of the cottage. She blinked. "He's not looking at us," she murmured.

"The hell he's not," Storm smirked.

"He isn't," Helena persisted. "Logan's got his back to us, mostly."

"Riiiiight. I predict he's going to take off his shirt in the next minute or so," came the soft reply. "Just wait."

Helena fiddled with one of her sandals, half-amused and half-piqued by the awareness of Logan within prime viewing range. It bothered her, but Storm didn't seem to care at all; the other woman shifted slightly on her lounger, making a contented sound. "I know it's for a good cause, but I *do* love the heat," she purred.

"Me too," Helena agreed. "We won't get much of it for the next four months at least."

Logan couldn't quite hear the conversation down below, but from Storm's tone, he knew he'd been spotted. That meant working a justification for looking their way, so he wiped his brow and moved to tug his tee-shirt off, using it to mop his temples.

He peeked through the cotton; Storm seemed to be stifling a laugh, but Logan could see Helena blinking and biting her lip.

Nice. At least there wasn't the sense of outrage down there, and he fought down a grin of his own. With careless grace, he tossed the shirt aside and reached for a shingle, flexing a bit. Logan knew he wasn't too bad-looking, and judging from the faint scent of interested female in the air, it was paying off.

He turned to look, and was met with a wall of fog.

Shit.

Storm wasn't playing the game fairly, and not only was he missing out on a great view; now it was getting chilly. Logan growled, swiping a hand ineffectively through the air. It thinned a bit, and he could see both of the women looking up at him now.

Playing it cool, he waved. "Storm. Helena."

"You looked a little warm," Storm offered. "Thought I'd help cool things off."

"Thanks," he muttered flatly. "Real thoughtful."

"Always here to help," Storm called up, a laugh in her voice. The fog thickened a bit, and not willing to lose the view, Logan moved closer to the edge of the roof. Underfoot, the newly damp tiles gave no traction.

Helena winced at the heavy ground-shaking 'thud' of Logan hitting the lawn, followed by a groan of annoyed pain.

Storm shook her head and rolled over. "He'll be fine, the big letch."

Helena wasn't so sure. She got up and trotted across the pool deck towards the cottage, concerned. "Logan?"

He was there at the base of the flowerbeds, sprawled on his side, rubbing his ribs and scowling. "Ow."

"Are you okay?" she demanded, knowing that he was, but still needed *some* sort of reassurance. Old habits stuck, even in a school full of mutants.

Logan started to rise, then lay back, hoping Helena would come over to check him; that would be a nice trade-off for looking like a complete idiot moments before.

She did, and he held back a surge of pleasure headed right for his groin because if there was anything Logan liked more than a woman in a bikini, it was a woman in a bikini that was just a bit too small, bending over him.

"Mostly okay," he grunted just to say something. In fact he was fine, and parts of him were much more than fine, given the view.

"Good, because I'm going to need your help moving some of the furniture out of storage," Helena told him, holding out a hand to help him up. "And I will give you TWO beers along with your favorite lunch if you agree."

"Can I think about it?" Logan stalled, holding her hand but making no move to get up as he gazed at her chest a moment longer.

Helena followed his line of sight and gave a little exasperated growl of her own. "Logan, stop staring and tell me if you're going to help or not?"

"Yeah I'll help," he grumbled, letting her pull him to his feet. He rose quickly, and nearly collided with her, which was fine by him; reaching to steady Helena, he pulled her to him in an unexpected hug.

It was . . . nice. Skin on skin, hers much warmer than he'd realized, and the bouncy give of her chest against his---

"Oooh," Helena gasped, and squirmed away, which added another fun dimension to things.

Logan let her go and grinned. "Hey if this is your new school uniform, I approve."

She skittered away, first towards the lounger to collect her robe and then to kitchen doors as he watched with wolfish interest. Storm strolled up, a faint smile crossing her features as she approached Logan. "You may want to roll up that tongue," she advised.

"_You _made the weather, and the pair of you chose to work on your tans," he pointed out. "While _I_ was working."

"True," she admitted, "But there's a line between looking and touching, Logan." Storm held his glance a moment and turned away, adding, "Don't let my good work go to waste."

*** *** ***

Hank woke quickly, taking a moment to figure out what had roused him. It came again; a gradual slowing of the train, and he relaxed, remembering that the next stop was due to take on passengers also heading east. By his best estimate of the darkness, it was roughly four in the morning, and that meant they were nearly in Chicago.

Glancing up towards Lucy's bunk, he noted one bare foot dangling over the edge. Impishly the urge to reach up and stroke it flared in his thoughts, followed by a much more sensual image of kissing it.

It would make a lovely starting point, Hank privately admitted to himself. From what he'd seen of Lucy, she had strong, shapely legs, rounded hips, and a definitely an attractive derriere, oh my yes. Hank tended to appreciate women in their entirety, but there were always physical features that received more of his attention than others, and the fact that Lucy San Marcos compiled so many of them was nothing short of delightful.

Hips, backside, slightly hefty chest, strong arms, and dark glossy hair that caught gleams of light . . . guiltily Hank wondered what she looked like naked, and that dangerous musing left him suddenly dizzy as his body responded to that with an immediate and unmistakable enthusiasm.

"Down, boy," Hank muttered to himself, rolling to his side in embarrassment. He tried to clear his mind, mortified to realize that it had been nearly a year since he'd been intimate with anyone. Unfortunately, the image of Lucy in the nude, now conjured, was impossible to dismiss. He closed his eyes tightly, moving his formidable powers of concentration to other matters trying to find a priority for what needed to be done.

_Lucy. Lucy needed to be done_, his body argued. She was bright, beautiful and beguiling and temptingly very close at hand. Hank winced a little—two hours before dawn was not a time of resolute willpower for anyone, and his erection was starting to win the argument by throbbing.

He sighed. Moving quietly, Hank made his way to the bathroom. It was a close fit, but he managed to close the door behind him and kept the light off. There was soap, and with a little water from the sink, he had slick fingers within minutes. Undoing the drawstring of his pajamas, Hank pushed them to mid-thigh and slid one firm familiar grip around his aching erection, slowly caressing it with relief as he leaned over the stainless steel bowl.

Hank groaned, very softly, and gave his imagination free reign, pushing aside all intellectual considerations in favor of more blatant and basic urges. He stroked himself more firmly.

Lucy naked. Lucy with her hair down, half wrapped in a diaphanous sheet, looking luscious. Bare hips and feet, bracelets jingling, kissing her mouth and more, parting her thighs, heat and scent and oh dear God what it would be like to thrust into her deeply . . .

It didn't take very long, and Hank muffled his heavy groans as best he could against his furry shoulder, caught between the sensual pleasure of release and the sublime embarrassment of the same.

While washing his hands in the sink, he didn't dare look at himself in the mirror. Quietly Hank padded back to the unfolded sofas and stretched out, falling asleep quickly.

On the top bunk, huddled deep in her blankets, Lucy muzzily breathed in the slightly musky scent drifting up from below, and smiled to herself.

*** *** ***

Lucy looked up from her hand. Across from her at the table, Hank was still considering his own cards, his reading glasses low on his nose.

On the table between them in the dining car lay the deal for a round of Spite and Malice, with Hank ahead—for the moment. The afternoon sun was coming through the other side of the car, and around them, other travelers were also playing cards or reading, or in the case of the young mother with the two children, taking in an afternoon snack.

She listened again, and when Hank glanced at her, he caught the scent of her preoccupation. "Lucy?"

"Something's not right," she murmured uneasily. Lucy could smell the quick ozone of panic spiking through the car, but couldn't quite locate it. "Something—"

"Mom, Kelly's choking!" came the worried chirp of a child. Instantly the mother pulled her gagging two-year old out of the high chair and tried patting her back.

Lucy dropped her cards and moved over, swiftly scooping up the baby. She turned the little girl over along the length of one forearm, and hit the child between the shoulder blades. By the fourth blow, a wet and mangled grape flew out of the toddler's mouth onto the dining car carpet, followed by a string of half-digested food. Lightly Lucy turned the girl and wiped her little mouth gently with her fingers. "Are you okay, Pumpkin? Feel better?"

"Oh God, Kelly—Thank you!" the mother gasped, arms reaching out for her daughter. Lucy handed the now-hiccupping child over and picked up a napkin. The other child, silent in worry and fear, simply stared.

"I'm sure she'll be all right. I think she simply got a grape that was a little too big for her and didn't chew it all," Lucy murmured soothingly, wiping her fingers. "You may want to cut them in half."

"Yes," the mother nodded, most of her attention still focused on her younger daughter. "I can't thank you enough! How did you know?"

"I . . . work with children a lot," Lucy offered. "Heimlich and CPR are part of it. Does she want some water?"

After calming Kelly down, Lucy looked up; Hank was at her shoulder, his gaze on the little girl. "Is she all right?"

They all looked up at him; the baby girl grinned.

"Yes, she's fine," the young mother babbled in relief. Hank picked up a fallen juice cup and offered it to the toddler, who grabbed it. "I was just saying to your wife how grateful I am that she knew what to do, because it all happened so fast, and I—"

A porter broke in anxiously. "Are you all right ma'am? Is there anything I can do?"

"We're fine, thanks to these folks," the mother told him. "Just fine now, right, Kel-Kel?"

The baby girl burped, making her sibling laugh, and the tension around the table eased considerably. Lucy rose, but the young mother reached out to catch her hand. "Seriously—thank you. When we get home I'm taking a course, I promise."

"That's a great idea," Lucy replied calmly. "Your other youngster is sharp—she spoke up when she saw her sister in trouble. I'd say that's terrific as well."

Lucy and Hank returned to their table and the dining car settled down again. She picked up her cards, and looked over to find Hank staring at her.

He said nothing, but the tint of his scent did, and Lucy blushed a little. "Hank--" she muttered softly.

"You knew," he whispered. "Somehow you knew."

"She panicked; I caught the scent of it," Lucy admitted. "I could help, so I did. Anyone else would do the same."

"Others might make the attempt, and be too late," Hank countered, "Or not know what to do when they got there. I think I'm going to start the Lucy San Marcos fan club."

Embarrassed, she reached over and swatted his wrist lightly. "Stop it!"

"I bet I can even get His Holiness to sign up," Hank teased.

"Right," Lucy snorted, sorting through her hand once more. "Because we both know that the Pope really has nothing better to do."

Hank's cell phone rang, and he reached for it, his gaze still on Lucy. It shifted though, after the greeting. "Agatha. What news?"

Lucy gathered up all the cards neatly, working hard at not listening in. Hank's scent had shifted from sweet to concerned with a hint of defensive musk in it now.

"That's ridiculous. She hasn't been doing any such thing, and both Charles and I can vouch for that. Any and all referred students arriving at the school are there with parental consent, or if unavailable, with the full knowledge of the state officials in question. Check with Charles; he has the paperwork."

Lucy shot Hank a worried glance; he reached for her hand, cupping it in his much larger one as he continued to listen for a moment.

"Hank—"

He shook his head at her and spoke again. "If it's Dilkins, Aggie, then I'll get to him as soon as I get into DC. Yes, yes, the man's a walking hemorrhoid, but he's the best liaison we've got to the Bureau at the moment. The minute I get in, which should be . . . about six AM."

There was a pause, and Lucy started; Hank's scent had shifted again, this time there was a slightly embarrassed note in it.

"Aggie my dear, I don't have to take that sort of questioning, even from you. And let's remember that your definition of 'behaving' is not quite as strict as my own. Watch yourself; I _do_ have fangs."

The tinny laughter was loud enough for even Lucy to hear, and she snickered as Hank blushed a bit.

"That is NOT doing much to help my reputation, Agatha if you refuse take me seriously. I'll see you in fourteen hours or so, mon cher secrétaire. Goodbye."

He hung up and Lucy gave him an inquiring head tilt, her smirk fading as Hank's expression grew serious. "Agatha says that the FBI have unofficially admitted they've been watching you for the last few years, and they're going to want a face-to-face meeting when we get to DC. She also adds that she hasn't heard anything more about the deceased agent or the whereabouts of his partner."

"Ah," Lucy sighed. "Hank—this isn't just a visit, is it?"

He locked gazes with her. "I think not, dear heart. Certainly you won't be able to return to your job without difficulty, and as for the screening of youngsters . . . that's probably at an end, now as well, unfortunately."

Hank breathed in her bitterness, accepting the responsibility for that scent as he lowered his head slightly.

Lucy squeezed her eyes tightly, willing the tears away as she tried to cope with this new and unhappy news. The last two days had seemed unreal, but this latest information brought her anger to the forefront. She took a deep breath. "Damn it!"

"Lucy--"

"Don't try to placate me, Doctor McCoy! Forty-eight hours ago, I had a _life_. It wasn't much of one, but at least it was my own. Now I'm being shuttled to a strange place without much say so in the process. I accept that it's probably for the best, but that doesn't mean I have to be meek about the fact. Damn it! This means a formal resignation from Mesa Medical, and I'll have to get Grandfather to take care of my apartment, and God, a thousand other pissant things to get done . . ."

"Pissant?" Hank questioned, his pointed ears perking ever so slightly. Lucy pulled her hand from his, scowling.

"Another grandmother word, for insignificant, and sort of the way I feel at the moment."

"Ah," Hank sighed, rebuked, and picked up his reading glasses. "Lucy, I wish I knew what to say. This isn't the way I envisioned matters going either, and yet from the moment we met at Waffle World, events around us seem to have taken on a sinister turn. I have no regrets that I was there to intervene, though—if you had disappeared never to be heard from again, both Charles and I would have been devastated, not to mention the children you've sent to us as well."

Lucy looked away, but he could sense the slight lessening of her anger. Hank tugged the pocket square out of his jacket and began to clean his reading glasses as he continued. "You _matter_, my dear. To us, very much so, and for some nefarious reason, to other less noble-minded folk as well. Until we figure out why . . ."

"Until we figure out why," Lucy sighed, "We go to Xavier's school, yes I know. I just . . . I just wish it had been a choice."

"I understand," Hank murmured softly. "But seeing that it is not, it behooves us to make the best of it."

Lucy nodded tightly.


	6. Chapter 6

The train pulled into the Westchester station a little after two in the morning, and they were the only ones disembarking. Lucy shivered; it was cold and dark out beyond the station itself.

"I know it looks foreboding, especially at this hour, but it's safe," Hank assured her, gently wrapping his arm around Lucy's back to guide her along. They passed the suitcase to the porter and made their way off the trail and into the nearly empty station. Lucy blinked at the florescent light, and suddenly a warm scent greeted her.

It was a blend of aftershave, clean linen and English oak as the base, and breathing the scent in, Lucy knew without a doubt who it had to be. She turned to meet the calm, clear gaze of the gentleman in the wheelchair. "Charles Xavier," she murmured. "That's you, isn't it?"

"Doctor San Marcos, it is my very great pleasure to finally meet you," he intoned graciously, extending both hands to her and smiling. Relief flooded through her at the calming presence the man radiated. Between Hank and Xavier, she felt suddenly much safer. "Please call me Charles; I think we've been corresponding long enough to drop the formalities," he added. "Hank, you've made good time."

"And _my_ part of the trip isn't over yet," came McCoy's sigh. "I'll only be here long enough to see Lucy settled before I head to Washington."

"Yes, I know. Still—shall we?"

Lucy couldn't tell if anyone was driving the limousine, but after they piled in the back, the car started and Charles spoke. "At the moment we have sixteen full-time students, five part-time students and six staff members, Doctor San Marcos—"

"--Lucy," she interrupted lightly. "Any chronic conditions or medical histories I should know about right away?"

"I'm sure you're familiar with Desmond's asthma, and we have a few students with various allergies . . . but for the moment, you are a _guest_ here, and under no obligation to attend to us," Charles told her soothingly.

Lucy gave a slightly embarrassed sigh. "Oh . . . I'm sorry. I just _assumed_ that . . ." she trailed off. Hank gently smiled and took her hand.

"Your skills would be welcome and appreciated, but only if it's acceptable to _you_. I know I speak for all of us in welcoming you to Xavier's school without reservations or expectations."

"T-thank you," she replied, choking up a bit.

Charles gave her an understanding smile. "I know it's been a long and tiring trip, Lucy, and you need rest. I've taken the liberty of having the guest cottage prepared for you, so you'll have privacy during your time with us. In the morning, I would be delighted to give you a full tour of our facility and help you with whatever further plans you may be considering."

"Thank you," Lucy replied gently, sighing. "Again."

"Think nothing of it," Charles assured her. "These are very nearly the same circumstances that so many of your patients have passed through to reach us as well, so you are in good company."

They arrived and Lucy had impressions of imposing buildings, stately and quiet in the darkness. Charles handed Hank keys and excused himself, reminding Lucy he would see her in the morning at her convenience and rolled himself towards one of the larger buildings.

She realized with a start, that no one had been driving the car, but before Lucy could think more about this, Hank took her hand and lead her down a walkway that went around the side of the buildings, speaking softly. "Much as I wish I could, I cannot stay, Lucy, but you have my number and I _will_ be back here this weekend."

"Hank, you don't need to do that," she told him, trying not to yawn. "S-sorry."

"It's late. Or early, depending on how you look at it," he replied with gentle humor. "Lucy, I *want* to return. Aside from having grown quite . . . fond of you, Aggie would have my fangs if I didn't follow through, and I believe we both know how terrified I am of her."

Lucy laughed as they unlocked the cottage and Hank flicked on the lights.

The cottage was a modest but cozy little place with a living room, kitchen, bathroom and single bedroom all neatly tucked in a tidy square. The entire place was compact, and the ceiling was so low that there were places where Hank had to duck a bit.

Lucy looked around and nodded, satisfied. She set her purse down, and Hank handed her the small carryall with her purchases in it, then hesitated. "Lucy—"

She looked up at him, and Hank cleared his throat, his scent embarrassed but endearingly familiar now.

A perfume of comfort.

"I simply want to reiterate that if you need _anything_ my dear, day or night, please don't hesitate to call me," he intoned, his voice low and deep. "Please."

"I . . . will," she told him. "Of course."

Hank laughed awkwardly. "Gads, this is difficult; I had no idea you were habit-forming." Before Lucy could reply, he gave her a last, strong hug. "Keep being brave, dear heart," came his whisper. Moving quickly, he slipped out the door, admonishing her to lock it behind him.

Lucy did, listening to his footsteps fading off. She looked around the cottage once more, and before she could stop herself, burst into hot, silent tears.

*** *** ***

Helena fretted. The clerk at the courthouse had called and instructed her to show up at ten to do the paperwork for a date before the Family Law court, and while normally this wasn't a problem, there was a new guest at the school to be considered.

After helping with the breakfast and checking in on the daily chore roster, Helena spoke with Charles, who gave her a kindly smile and told her to take care of her personal business; he would see to Doctor San Marcos himself. Feeling somewhat better, she gathered her paperwork and purse and headed out to the garage, only to run into Logan, who was already there.

"Ready to go?"

"Logan—" Helena balked, "You don't have to come along!"

"Nope," he agreed, holding open the door of the truck for her, "but I have a plan for dealing with your scumbag ex. Come on."

Helena climbed in and sighed as Logan swung himself into the driver's seat and they pulled out of the garage. The truck rumbled, but Logan spoke confidently over the noise. "Okay, so right now, your ex is trying to chisel you out of a percentage of your wages because you've got a job and he doesn't. Sort of."

"Sort of?" she questioned, shooting him a sidelong glance.

Logan frowned. "Let's just say I've got my suspicions about Mr. well-dressed and a little overweight, okay? He's not missing any GQ sales or meals from what I can see."

"Yeah," Helena agreed, thinking back,. "Blaine did look like he was doing fine, didn't he?"

"More than he should be," Logan agreed. "Anyway, the two of you need to get a date in front of the judge, right?"

Helena made a face. "Yeah. We both need to get our stuff notarized."

"Fun," Logan muttered. "I think it would be a good idea if I stayed with you, because I get on his nerves, and if we rattle him, he's liable to slip up."

"Rattle him?" she repeated, clutching her purse in her lap. "Logan, I don't need you two to fight, especially in the clerk's office! That's just the sort of thing that could screw me over!"

"No, no fighting," Logan was quick to reassure her. "Just a little effort to put No-brain Blaine on edge. Something's not on the level with that guy, and he's not good enough to keep it under wraps long, especially if he's distracted. Trust me, Helena; I've got a _feeling_ about this."

She wanted to argue, but didn't simply because she sensed it too. If Blaine was genuinely as bad off as he'd implied, then he shouldn't be in high-end clothes, and looking smug. Helena slowly nodded, checking her watch. "Okay. I may live to regret this, but I agree."

They parked in the City Hall garage, and as they walked towards the building, Logan took Helena's hand, lacing his big fingers with hers. She glanced down and her mouth twitched a bit. "Setting the stage?"

"He'll notice," came the confident reply. They strolled on and into the building, passing other people and moving to the elevator.

Helena studied the sign and pointed. "Third floor, room 344."

As they stepped out of the elevator, Helena felt Logan's fingers tighten warningly in hers; she looked to see Blaine down the hall, his back to them.

"Trying to make an impression by getting here first," Logan muttered. "I hate that kind of one-upsmanship shit."

Helena gave a resigned murmur of agreement. "That's generally his sort of game."

"Well we can do a little of our own damn needling," Logan flashed her a grin. "You game?"

Helena held his glance a moment, enjoying his attention, then nodded. "Given the pain he's been, sure."

"Good woman," Logan replied, and slipped his arm around her waist.

They walked in tandem down the hall, and Blaine turned at their approach. His normally smug expression faltered a bit, but he recovered and focused on Helena, sneer forming on his lips. "You're late."

"Yeah, well it took a while to get out of bed this morning," Logan replied.

Helena laughed throatily, and turned to nuzzle his cheek before looking over at her ex. "Actually, we're on time, Blaine. Your new Rolex must be a little off."

"Never mind that. Let's go get this done," he snapped, not bothering to look at Logan.

The three of them stepped into the clerk's office and were met by a small round man with a ponytail and wire rim glasses. He glanced around. "Henderson/Anderson?"

"That's us," Blaine acknowledged. "Me, the ex, and a stray dog."

Logan didn't flinch, and merely tightened his arm around Helena.

The clerk, who wore a tag that read _Dillon Mather_ motioned for them to follow him to a corner desk. "All right, I have your file here, and I need to go over a few pertinent questions before I notarize your statements and give you a date to appear before Judge Knox." He looked up briefly. "I hope I don't need to remind everyone here that I'm merely the clerk, so save your arguments for the courtroom, please."

The processing took the better part of an hour, and during that time, Helena tried to concentrate, but it was difficult with Logan constantly touching her. He was gentle but consistent and the feel of his fingers trailing along her shoulder or down her spine as she filled in blanks sent little inward shivers through her entire system.

It was delicious torture, and when she finally managed her signature on the document, it was slightly shaky; Blaine sneered. "Got the shakes, 'Lena? Sheesh, I can barely _read_ that. Are you on drugs?"

She coolly looked up at her ex. "Why don't we _both_ take a drug test right now, Blaine?"

That made him pause, and Logan leaned against Helena, very softly whispering in her ear. "Bull's-eye." His hot breath made her shudder slightly, hip grinding back against him.

"Jesus, get a _room_ already," Blaine sniffed. "You two are disgusting!"

Helena ignored that, and looked to Dillon Mathers, who collected the pages from her and glanced them over.

"This seems to be in order. So, fifteen for the notarization and a processing fee of thirty-five; that will come to fifty dollars."

"I only have ten on me," Blaine muttered.

Wordlessly, Logan smoothly fished out his wallet and handed Mathers a single bill before reached up to stroke Helena's cheek with his knuckles.

She tried to protest, but he shook his head and turned back to the clerk. "Thank you. We appreciate your time, Mr. Mathers."

"All in a day's work," the clerk murmured, but his tone was kind and he handed the first date slip to Helena. "Your date is six weeks from now, courtroom A, with Judge Knox. Your attorney should bring your financial records with him."

Blaine snatched the second slip and sulkily left the office first; Helena took a moment to carefully tuck the paper in her purse before looking up at Logan.

He was frowning a little.

"Logan?"

"I'll tell you in a minute," he responded and nodded again to the clerk.

They stepped out in the hall, and before Helena could ask, Logan spun her lightly and braced her against the wall, smoothly, sweetly bending in for a kiss. Startled, Helena had no chance to protest, and the sudden heat of his mouth against hers; strong and sweet drew the breath from her.

It was a damned good kiss, igniting a sultry fireball of desire down in her stomach. She wanted to say something, but only managed to open her mouth enough to admit the ruthless tickle of Logan's tongue, letting it glide deep inside. After that, Helena gave up coherency and simply let him sweep her away in the kiss.

He pulled back reluctantly and Helena gasped, taking in a breath and staring at Logan, drinking in those familiar features with a new appreciation them close up: long lashes, bedroom eyes, feline sideburns and roguish smirk.

Logan licked his lips. "He's looking."

"Huhhh?" Helena responded in a daze.

"That . . . guy," Logan managed, not sounding any too steady himself. "Your . . ." he moved to kiss her again. ". . .ex."

Helena blinked, and tipped her face slightly, kissing Logan back this time, letting the heat that was rising in her belly give her courage. He gave a little growl deep in this throat, and responded with an intensity that left her knees weak.

Regretfully she needed air after a while, and turned for a breath, dimly noting Blaine in the distance, his normally pale face red with anger. Helena couldn't focus on him though; Logan's body against hers demanded attention.

"Mad," she managed in a husky tone. It was all Helena could get out."

"No you're not," Logan muttered back softly, his lips against her ear. "Not even close, baby."

"_Him_," Helena breathed, wriggling a little. She took another breath and lightly pushed Logan back a bit, aware that one or two people in the hall were glancing at them, most with smiles. Reluctantly he gave her room, and Helena tried to regain her dignity by smoothing down her hair a bit.

Blaine was advancing on them, crowding in close, his annoyance now morphing into genuine anger. "You know what? You're welcome to the slut," he hissed. "It's not like she was ever that good in bed anyw—"

He never got to finish; Logan reached down, lightly dropping his hand towards Blaine's crotch while letting his claws flash out to cut slashes along the material over the other man's thighs.

"I'd give it a trim, but you don't have enough to piss with as it is," Logan growled in an undertone. A dark, sour stain began to spread along Blaine's groin and swiftly, Logan retracted his talons with a soft metallic chime.

The whole incident had been blocked from anyone else's view and had taken less than five seconds altogether.

"Christ!" Blaine squeaked. "You're _one_ of them! The one they told me about!"

"They?" Logan demanded in a low voice, but Blaine had turned and was starting to run towards the elevators, pushing people out of his way.

Helena met Logan's gaze and bit her lip, feeling the real world rush back in suddenly. She blinked, and he slipped an arm around her comfortingly, the two of them walking towards the stairs in silence.

When they reached the truck, Logan held the door open for her and Helena climbed in, clutching her purse tightly. He got in, put the key in the ignition, but didn't start it. Looking straight ahead through the windshield, he spoke. "Helena . . ."

"Shhhhh," came her soft reply. "I'm in a very good place right now."

Logan looked over at Helena's profile; she had a blissful and serene expression that made him grin. "You too, huh?"

"We need to talk," she murmured, "but for right now, I'm just feeling . . . good."

Logan started the engine, grinning again.

*** *** ***

Hank made his way down the hall to his office where the glow of light under the door assured him of company. Opening it, he peeked in and announced, "Aggie, I'm home."

"About time!" came the low croak as a tiny figure in charcoal grey darted over and hugged him enthusiastically.

Hank looked down at the top of his secretary's head, bending to kiss the crown of it lightly. "Anyone would think you'd actually _missed_ me, Agatha Jane Thompson. Good thing I know better."

Aggie tipped her head up to glare at him; since she was only four feet ten inches tall it was a bit of a stretch. "What gave it away, Blue Boy? My enthusiasm? My public display of affection?"

"All of the above. Let's have it; what do I need to sign?" Hank replied in an amused tone of resignation. "Not even through the doorway and I'm being railroaded into paperwork."

"That's one of the things I like about you, Doctor McCoy; you're a pragmatic observer of humanity," Aggie snorted. She let him go and scurried back to the desk as Hank loosened his tie and followed her, settling into his chair.

Outside the windows, the light was just past dawn.

"Okay, there are a stack of review committee meeting notes you need to initial, and a few inter-department memos; I've got your travel vouchers here too, so what's she like?"

Hank looked up from the papers; Aggie was staring at him, a soft smirk on her sharp little features. When she looked at him like that, it always brought to mind the image of a tiny kitchen witch his mother had back in his childhood.

Agatha Jane Thompson was a petite woman who'd begun to work for the federal government back in the Nixon administration. She wore conservative dress suits, and cat's eye glasses on a chain, kept her white hair neatly bunned.

She also took no shit from anyone, which in government service was a career killer.

Agatha been bounced from office to office because of her direct, uncompromising manner, and ultimately been foisted three years ago on Hank McCoy in the newly formed Department of Mutant Affairs, who had needed someone efficient and experienced.

The match turned out to be an exceptionally good one; Hank fought to get her several overdue pay promotions, and Agatha, who wasn't used to being appreciated, formed an immediate, warm, and maternal loyalty to her boss.

"Who?" Hank teased, knowing full well, but stalling for time.

Aggie was having none of it. She rolled her eyes. "Doctor Lucy San Marcos, Hank. She whom you have been," Aggie made finger quotes in the air, "escorting to safety. Is she really as pretty as her hospital photo?"

"Prettier," Hank replied before catching himself. "Not that I noticed per se; it was strictly a matter of discretion."

"Riiiiiiight," Aggie scoffed delightedly, pushing up her cat's eye glasses. "Soooo--what's she like?"

"Quiet. Shy. Deferential to men," Hank laughed. "All those good old-fashioned qualities you characterize SO well, Aggie darling."

"Don't make me break out the scissors and give you a Mohawk."

"She's a very nice woman," Hank murmured softly, unfazed by the threat. "Compassionate, intelligent; a bit on the cautious side, but thoroughly nice. Yes, she's _quite_ attractive, and having said that, I forbid you to make any matchmaking attempts on my behalf, Agatha Jane."

"So you'll do them _yourself_. Good!" she smiled teasingly. "About time."

Hank looked over the top of his reading glasses at Aggie. "I am immune to your sarcasm, you know."

"So _you_ say. Still, any trouble on the trip? I was worried about you."

"None on the train," Hank told Aggie. "Although I need to be brought up to speed. When do I meet with Dilkins, and what can you fill me in on about Lucy's case?"

Aggie trotted over to her desk and pulled out a file, bringing it over to Hank. "The FBI allowed me _one_ print-out, so you owe me. Your appointment with Dilkins is at ten; he'll come here and he isn't happy about it. Oh, and you were right, Hank—they were going to use the Mann Act, so any documentation about Doctor San Marco's referrals that you can get from Professor Xavier ASAP will help matters. Coffee?"

"Reimburse yourself from the kitty for the copy, I appreciate the appointment, and yes, three creams, three sugars. Thank you," Hank murmured, not looking up from the file. "I'm going to read this and then try to nap until Dilkins gets here."

"All right," Aggie agreed. She reached out to touch his thick furry wrist and added, "It's good to have you back in one piece, boss."

Hank flashed her a gentle smile. "Thank you."

He read over the report three times, making notes in the margins by the third go round, then got up and drained the coffee before stretching out on the sofa at the far end of the office.

Agatha glanced over at him occasionally, smirking, and finished up her filing. On a whim, she pulled up the web address of the florist nearest Xavier's school and emailed it to Hank, knowing he'd see it.

She bet herself a dinner at Wonton William that her old-fashioned boss would place an order before the end of the day and smiled to herself, feeling smug.


	7. Chapter 7

Lucy felt better as she finished up the last of her coffee and tucked her cell phone in her pocket. After the previous night's bout of tears, she'd curled up in bed and slept soundly through the rest of the night, and now she was showered and dressed; was ready to face whatever the day would bring. Certainly she was no stranger to new surroundings, and by her watch it was nearly eight-thirty, so she stepped out of the cottage and headed along the path towards the buildings beyond the rise of the slope.

Her first view of Xavier's school had been in the dark; here in the daylight it was far more impressive, and she shaded her eyes, marveling at the stately architecture before her. The place looked as if it had been transplanted from England, with its trimmed hedges and ivy-covered walls. Lucy whistled, and continued up the path, passing a few sheds, a basketball court, a croquet lawn before reaching a side door. She hesitated, reaching for the handle, but a soft voice in her head spoke up. _I see you've found your way. Come through the door and down the hall to the third door on the left, Lucy._

She blinked a little but followed the instructions, arriving at the doorway of a large and well-used study. Behind the massive desk at the far end, Charles looked up at her and smiled. "Ah, you made it. Good morning."

"Good morning," she echoed and stepped in, feeling slightly underdressed in jeans and blouse since Charles was in a full three-piece suit. He smiled at her and motioned to a tray on the side table, where coffee, toast, jam and steaming scrambled eggs awaited.

"I was just about to have breakfast and would be delighted if you'd join me. Helena, our house manager, chides me when I forget to eat."

Nodding her head in thanks, Lucy moved to take a plate and fill it as Charles poured coffee for them both. She noted he moved his wheelchair without touching it, and did so with smooth grace. "Sugar? Cream?"

"Both, thank you," came her soft reply, and for a while they ate quietly. Finally, Charles set aside his plate, wiped his mouth with his napkin and looked to her.

"Hank tells me that your particular mutation is fascinating," he began gently. "That you can manipulate your pheromones and mimic those of others. I can see how that would help you enormously in your profession."

"Did he actually *tell* you, or did you pick it up from his thoughts?" Lucy asked warily.

His expression remained serene. "He told me," Charles assured her. "I don't enter anyone's thoughts without invitation, Lucy, although Hank permits me to out of a long sense of trust. In this case however, he mentioned it in his second email to me since he thought the information would be useful in bringing you here."

Lucy sighed. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to get off on the wrong foot; you've been incredibly gracious in giving me a place to stay, and I am grateful for it. I'm frustrated though, and I think you can understand why."

"I do," Charles assured her. "Some of the issues at hand will take time to settle, whether we like it or not. In the meantime, however, there are some people who will be delighted to see you."

He rolled his chair away from the desk and looked up at Lucy, motioning towards the door. "Let me show you a legacy that you are helping to build, Lucy San Marcos."

She walked beside him, setting her scent to a slightly neutral version of his and listened as Charles told her the history of the mansion, waving occasionally to portraits on the walls. They turned left at a corridor junction and through the first open doorway; Lucy spotted desks, and students. She blinked as one familiar face turned to look at her and beamed.

"Doctor Lucy!" Desmond Mills yelled, interrupting the lesson and making her blush. The disruption didn't seem to faze the elegant woman with white hair who was describing land formations on a globe; she waved for the visitors to come in and looked to Charles for explanation.

"Our friend from the West Coast," he told her. "Storm, this is Doctor Lucy San Marcos."

A cluster of children had abandoned their desks and were crowding around Lucy, hugging her, chattering loudly as they did so. She attempted to hug as many of them back as she could, and at some point Lucy realized her scent had changed again, spreading a warm joy through the room. She looked up at the woman and held out a hand, smiling. "Pleased to meet you!"

"And you," Storm smiled. "You've got quite a fan club here."

"I didn't realize . . ." Lucy gulped, and turned back to the students, answering questions, listening, hugging.

Storm moved to stand near Charles, watching them, her expression serene. "I like her."

"Pheromones," Charles murmured.

Storm gave a shrug. "A little, sure but anyone can see she *cares* about the kids. Is she staying?"

"I hope so," came the thoughtful reply. "There aren't many mutant pediatricians on the market, and we could definitely use one."

This made Storm chuckle, and she looked at Charles. "There's something more, isn't there?"

"Quite a few things; some on a need-to-know basis," he replied easily.

"What *can* you tell me?" she pressed, smiling. "I know that look, Charles."

"Flowers are arriving at the front gate for our guest," he informed Storm with a smile. "Now who could have sent those, I wonder?"

*** *** ***

He agonized over what to write. Standing at the florist's counter, Hank stared at the little card, chiding himself under his breath. "You're a reasonably articulate man, McCoy . . . think of something!"

He blamed Aggie and her email. The devious woman knew his chivalrous nature all too well, and it *had* been in the back of his mind to send flowers anyway, so on the way to an early lunch he'd stopped at Delany's and into his current dilemma.

Hank sighed, and closed his eyes, picturing Lucy. Dimple in her left cheek, big amber eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, husky laugh.

"Dearest Lucy," he muttered, "I . . . am . . . . a complete lunatic to be talking to myself here at the florist's."

"Dude, that's what they all say," the girl behind the counter told him. "You're not alone." She was chubby and cocoa skinned, and had taken his order moments before.

"Thank you," Hank sighed. "It's nice to know I have company."

"First flowers?" the girl inquired. "That is, first time you're sending them to this particular person?"

"Yes."

"That's why it's hard," she nodded sagely. "I'll tell you a secret: keep it simple this time. The flowers will do the talking. You can get mushier the next couple of bouquets you send."

"Mushier?" Hank blinked. "And forgive me, but that's rather calculating assumption for a florist, isn't it?"

"Romance is all about repeat business," she shrugged, grinning. "And you totally *look* like a romantic guy."

"How so?" Hank demanded, feeling amused.

"Because if this order was going to your mother or a business associate, you wouldn't be talking to yourself about what to put on that card, that's why. Whoever the lucky chick is, you like her a lot and care about the impression you want to make. Stock in trade stuff for my business, you know?"

"I had no idea florists were psychologists as well," Hank sighed, scribbling a note on the card. "I suppose this will do."

The girl took the card and smiled. "She'll love them; I promise."

It had been a long and busy morning; Lucy was grateful to head back to the cottage, her arms full of books, electronics and flowers. She stepped inside, set down the laptop and manuals, then plucked the small envelope tucked in the arrangement, opening it with a sense of anticipation.

_Dearest Lucy,_

_Thinking of you, and hoping all is well. Expect me on the weekend._

_Affectionately,_

_Hank_

She smiled and sniffed the card; his scent lingered there, even over the perfume of the yellow and red roses in the little ceramic bowl. Lucy carried it to the tiny kitchen and added water, then set it on the windowsill.

As she began the Email to her grandfather, Lucy kept sneaking peeks at the flowers, feeling warm every time she did.

_Sichei Joe,_

_I'm not in trouble, but there are some things going on that I need to deal with in the next month or so, so I had to leave. Please send someone safe to check on my place and pack up some things to send to me. Don't use the boys or Anita. Make it a woman. Someone you trust. Someone who knows how to pack for a woman._

_I'll send you the address in two days. If anyone asks about me--anyone you don't know, don't tell them anything. Tell me if anyone—especially a Fed-- asks._

_If Mama asks, tell her I'm visiting New York._

_You are good to me. _

_Ahé he,_

_Lucy_

*** *** ***

The industrial washing machine was only half full, and Helena was helping Michiko put more sheets into it when Logan came through the laundry room door with another canvas sack of laundry. He cocked his head. "Where do you want it?"

"Over there. Michi, check to see if Doc Lucy has anything she wants washed. Take her one of the clean sacks, okay honey?"

The girl nodded, darting over to the cupboard where the clean bags were stored and collected one. She scooted out the doorway past Logan and left, the sound of her sandals fading off in the distance.

Helena finished loading the machine and turned, brushing her hair back. "Hey."

"Hey," he replied, moving over to lightly slide his hands down her bare arms. "Gonna duck out on me again? I thought guys were the ones who avoided relationship discussions."

"I'm not avoiding you," Helena countered, waving an arm around the room. "It's just that I'm a *tad* busy at the moment."

"I know," Logan sighed. "Not like this place runs itself. Still, you've been making it a point to stay away, I don't like that."

"I've been staying away because you're a dangerous man," Helena murmured, her words only half-teasing.

"Not around you," he rumbled, giving her his best attempt at an innocent face. "Come on, Helena—take a break from the chores and come with me outside for a while. Get some fresh air," Logan murmured. "A little privacy. I've got something to show you."

"I *bet* you do," she replied, but he shook his head, his expression soft.

"Not like that. At least, not right away," Logan admitted with a wry grin. "Give me credit for *trying* to be good. Come on—"

He tossed Helena her sweater and took her hand, tugging her with him out towards the stairs leading out the back of the school. Helena went with him, feeling amused and guilty and slightly excited as they made their way down the lawn and onto the creek path. The school disappeared behind them as the ground sloped, and the dark, bare trees of early November were wreathed with wisps of fog.

"Where are we going?" she asked, marveling that Logan made no noise moving through the trees. He looked over his shoulder at her once, and smiled, but didn't answer, and Helena gave a little sigh.

It was beautiful in the woods; quiet and mysterious. The splash of the creek carried, and soon they'd reached the bank overlooking the broadest section of it. Helena thought the water looked like dark glass, glittery and smooth. Logan slipped an arm around her and pointed with the other one. "There. Just up along the bend. Can you see it?"

"No," Helena muttered. "What am I looking at? Because to me, it's a pile of brush--"

Then something moved along the pile. Something sleek and dark that sat up for a moment. Helena stifled a gasp as the beaver dove into the creek.

"It's a lodge; first I've seen in the area," Logan mused, his voice gentle. "The walls look pretty thick, so we're going to have a cold winter."

Helena turned to look at him; he was leaning against a thick poplar, smiling faintly. "Really?" was all she could ask, drawn in by his expression.

Logan reached for her, pulling lightly her against him, and his heat seeped against her sweater. "Yep. Better huddle together to keep warm."

She laughed; she couldn't help it. Sometimes there was something so masculine and basic about the man that it was impossible to resist him. Especially now, when Logan was stroking her cheek and looking at her so intently.

"Talk to me," he urged softly. "Tell me how things are gonna be, Helena, because sometimes I think I know, and then you get all mysterious, like the moon."

"Like the moon?" she echoed.

"Everyone's got a dark side," Logan reminded her. "Even you, babe."

It was hard to think when he was close like this, and Helena closed her eyes for a moment, fighting down the pangs of hunger between her thighs. Her hands slid up his chest, under his open leather jacket and against the warm flannel of his shirt. "I don't want to hurt you," she murmured.

There was a pause; she opened her eyes to find him looking at her but not laughing, the way she'd expected. Instead, Logan looked . . . perplexed.

"You can't," he told her, but Helena shook her head impatiently.

"Not what I meant. I know you're a fighter—a killer—and that you've got that healing factor. That's all physical, Logan. I'm talking about something else. I'm not . . . good."

He cocked his head, looking so utterly lost now that Helena fought the urge to laugh bitterly.

She was going to have to spell it out, and gritting her teeth, she started. "Logan, I've been with only two guys my whole life, okay? I'm not very . . . experienced, not the way other women you've been with are. Blaine told me I was sort of okay in bed, and---"

"Whoa. Stop right there," Logan growled. "*Anything* out of the Asshole's mouth is automatically wrong, including the way he says your name."

She laughed a bit nervously. "Yeah, that always bothered me too."

Logan gave a sigh. "And this—" he hugged her in a quick squeeze, "—isn't about experience. It's about . . . it's about the way you smell, and how you make me feel when you walk by, and how I can hear your pulse when you look at me, Helena."

She blinked, feeling a flush of heat flash over her face in the cool air. "Logan—"

"I can't say it right, not the way someone fancier could," he sighed. "I know what I mean; I know the feelings and the flow of this thing but putting it into words is something I can't do. All I *do* know is that there's a lot of power between us, and it's good."

Helena held his gaze, and by the pull of it, leaned in to kiss him.

It started gentle; a comforting press of their lips in the cool afternoon air, but Helena wanted more and pressed harder, her hands coming up to cup the back of his neck. Logan groaned and eagerly opened to her kiss, letting Helena brazenly take the lead.

And she did. The heady thrill of kissing Logan brought her focus in tightly, on that wicked mouth of his, and the dance of his tongue with hers. Helena panted, catching a quick breath between kisses, feeling hot and cold and a little bit wild as she did so.

Finally though, she stopped and pulled away, looking into Logan's face, his breath warm against her lips.

"Don't stop," he whispered in a low voice that sent shivers through her.

"You like this?" Helena asked in a croak. "Because I could eat you up, Logan."

"Do it," he invited, and pulled her to him again, this time diving in warmly into her kiss. Logan slid strong hands around her ass and squeezed; Helena squeaked against his mouth, laughing a moment later at the sound of herself.

"Hey!"

"Wanted to do that for the *longest* time," he rumbled. "It's mine now."

"I'm still using it," Helena informed him. "For sitting and stuff."

"You're not sitting right now," Logan teased, and before she could protest, he picked her up easily, kissing her once again. Helena protested, but after a second, she wrapped her legs around him and kissed back, feeling a rush of giddy lust.

After a few long kisses, Logan lowered her again, reluctantly. "Okay, gotta stop now."

"Are you all right?" Helena asked in confusion.

He gave a frustrated grunt that slowly shifted to a laugh."Nothin' I can't . . . deal with."

She flushed as realization of what he meant dawned on her and Helena blinked. "I'm not . . . I didn't mean to . . ."

"And I'm not pushing," Logan told her with a sigh, "I DO want you, but our first time isn't gonna be downhill from the school laundry near a beaver lodge."

Helena laughed. "Really? Hard to think of any spot more romantic--"

"Helennnnnaaaa?" came Michi's call from up the hill.

Logan rolled his eyes and she laughed again, squeezing close enough to him to feel the thick ridge of his erection through both of their jeans. He gritted his teeth a little, breath warm in her face. "Now you're just being mean."

"Three dates," she told him, wondering when her voice had gotten so husky. "I want three dates first, Logan. Three times just to be with you before . . ."

He held her gaze, amused, frustrated and deep within those sharp eyes, admiring. Logan rubbed his thigh. "Three," he agreed thickly. "Okay."

"Good," Helena sighed and lightly pecked his lips. "Friday night, then, for dinner. And thank you for . . . showing me things."

"Yeah," Logan muttered. "You bet."

He waited until Helena trotted back up the hill towards the school, and then Logan laughed softly to himself, willing away the heavy ache between his thighs. There was a way to get more immediate relief, and it was tempting as hell, but he had things to do, and Friday was only a few days off.


	8. Chapter 8

It took a few days to settle in, and Lucy made the most of the time, reading up on the scant medical files in the computer of the infirmary and familiarizing herself with the equipment and layout. Certainly there were a lot of expensive pieces, and it took a while to remember how to run them, but she applied herself with her usual concentration, and by late Thursday, Lucy felt confident.

She had met most of the staff and liked them on sight. The only exception was the man called Logan; she shook his hand, but afterwards wanted to fill her palm with purifying sand because the first inhalation of his musk and loamy earth scent had raised the hair on the back of her neck straight up.

There was Skinwalker in Logan, she knew. Not much, but enough to make her wary. Still, he seemed to have the trust of everyone around him, Charles included, so Lucy cautiously accepted him, for the moment.

The children were a balm to her heart. Desmond, Skeeter, Oliver and all the others sat with her at meals and came to the clinic to chat, asking questions about their homes and sharing what they were doing now. Lucy tried to make time for everyone and quietly evaluated how they were doing. The quick assessments confirmed for her that Charles had taken her suggestions to heart and that was reassuring.

Still, she knew it would be good to have updated information on everyone, especially since there had been several new intakes since their last doctor on site, so with that in mind, Lucy began scheduling physicals for everyone, including the staff. She enlisted one of the older girls— a friendly chatterbox named Kitty—to do some of the clerical work, and managed to get through most of the younger children by Friday noon.

"All right, I think we can call it a day. Thank you for all your help, Kitty—I could never have gotten through this without you," Lucy told her young assistant with a gentle smile.

"Not a problem," Kitty assured her as she stood up and stretched. "Besides, it was kind of fun. I didn't know there were so many kids from out west or how many of them knew you!"

"Yes, well I've been scouting for a while," Lucy pointed out. "And it's a big continent."

"Oh yeah," Kitty agreed. "Wonder what's for lunch? I hope it's Mulligatawny. Helena makes the_ best_ Mulligatawny, with fresh bread and cookies afterwards."

"Scoot and find out," Lucy urged. "I've got some notes to write, so I'll pick up lunch later. And thank you again."

"Glad to do it," Kitty smiled, and then bounced through the door of the infirmary. Literally. Lucy watched her go, smiling; the girl's scent of bubblegum and clean cotton had a charm of its own. Turning back to the laptop, Lucy sat and checked her Email.

There was a note from New Mexico.

_Nizhoni,_

_The thing you asked about is done. You will know it in three days, the brown truck man tells me. Also, the talk you asked about has happened. Two men in black with shiny shoes know nothing._

_They smelled of old metal._

_Ayoo deestoi._

_Joseph_

Lucy sighed, and deleted the Email. She checked her watch out of habit, and moved to look out the tall window of the infirmary, her gaze taking in the manicured lawn, and off in the distance, the granite headstones marking the final resting places of Jean Grey and Scott Summers.

Some people might have found it a melancholy view, but not Lucy, who accepted and understood the inevitable. She'd visited the memorial to her predecessor and laid stones near it in the course of exploring the grounds. The memorial garden was quite peaceful, and Lucy had seen the treads of Xavier's wheelchair along the gravel path there.

The sound of a car coming up the long drive broke into her thoughts, and Lucy wished it was the UPS truck, but according to the note, that wouldn't be arriving until Monday. Slowly she began to close up the infirmary, debating on whether to join the children in making dinner—Friday was traditionally Helena's night off from cooking, apparently—or to sneak a frozen pizza out of the walk-in freezer and microwave it at her cottage.

She had just finished shutting down the laptop and was turning out the lights when a familiar scent brushed her nose. Startled, Lucy tugged open the infirmary door and launched herself into a big, blue-furred hug of comforting proportions.

"Haaaank," Lucy murmured happily into his vest and shirt-covered chest. "Missed me?"

"In the words of someone's grandmother: oodles," came the rumble of a reply somewhere over her head."You are keeping rather long office hours, Doctor San Marcos."

"Closing up shop, actually. When was the last time you had a physical?"

"Two years ago I think. You're not thinking of scheduling me for one, are you?" He questioned. Hank had not let go of her, and Lucy wasn't inclined to pull away.

Not just yet.

Hank sighed happily, savoring the moment. Lucy felt warm and right and curvaceously perfect in his arms. She burrowed in against him, and he tightened his grip slightly, aware that he was purring a bit.

"Yes, I am. *All* of you need complete medical histories if I'm expected to treat you. I smell flowers."

"They're in the foyer—came to my office, addressed to 'Mrs. McCoy.' Agatha has been needling me about_ that_ for the last two days."

"Mrs. McCoy?" Lucy echoed, turning her face up to him with curiosity.

Hank gave a sigh. "Remember the young mother on the train? Apparently she's the daughter of Senator Mason of Delaware, and she sent a thank you bouquet for saving her baby."

Lucy laughed. "Sweet of her."

"If somewhat misinformed," Hank rumbled. "Still, they're yours so I brought them along."

Reluctantly, Lucy extracted herself from his hug and took his arm instead. "Thank you. I'll put them with the others you sent on my windowsill."

"You got them. Good." Hank nodded, feeling pleased. Lucy's scent was a lovely mingling of rosemary and marshmallow that made him hungry.

"I did. Thank you for those too. What are you doing here at the school?"

They walked down the corridor towards the main hall, and Hank smiled. "I teach, of course. I run the Danger Room simulations, and work with students on hand-to-hand combat, and get in some lecturing on ethics and philosophy."

"Don't you ever take time off?" Lucy murmured, surprised at this additional workload.

Hank patted her hand. "This _is_ time off, trust me. I thoroughly enjoy my weekends here."

He didn't add that now they had an extra appeal; with luck, Lucy might figure that out eventually. As they turned the corner for the front door, Hank realized he'd come not only to the flowers, but also to a decision, and seeing Lucy had reaffirmed within him that it was the right one.

She blinked up at him, her nose twitching slightly. "Smug," Lucy intoned. "You are feeling very smug at the moment, Hank. What's _that_ all about?"

He handed her the flowers. "At the risk of sounding like the students, 'that is for me to know, and for you to find out.'"

Lucy eyed him with suspicious good-humor. "Let's see if you're still smug when I'm pressing an icy stethoscope against your chest."

Hank tapped his chest. "Fur."

Lucy shrugged. "Refrigerator."

"Touché, but let's not have it come to that," Hank winced. "You're serious about this, aren't you?"

"Yes," she admitted. "Having the adults come in for physicals not only sets a good example, it makes common sense. None of you have complete records, and while I understand the need for security, I would feel a lot more comfortable with actual histories at my fingertips instead of sketchy treatment notes."

"You make a valid point," Hank murmured, and yawned. Lucy looked at him more closely feeling a twinge of concern.

"You're exhausted and you need a nap," came her quick diagnosis. "Why don't you stretch out at the cottage, away from the noise around here and I'll come get you in time for dinner, Hank?"

He hesitated; the offer was very tempting. Lucy pushed, adding, "I'll tell Charles you're here—although he probably knows already—and you can take the flowers with you to save me a trip."

"How convenient for you," Hank snorted, but smiled. "In truth, I could use a siesta, but I can take any spare room here at the mansion."

"Not through Lauralee and Desmond's drum practice," laughed Lucy. "Offer going once, going twice—"

"—Taken," Hank jumped in. "Drums?"

"Two full kits, in the old billiards room," Lucy informed him. "I was warned about it myself this morning."

"Charming. I'm all for free expression, but at the moment—"

"Cottage," Lucy agreed, giving him a last, quick hug. "Dinner is probably going to be spaghetti since it's Helena's night off. Are you any good at cooking?"

"Sì, posso cucinare gli spaghetti," Hank assured her.

"Show off," Lucy laughed. "Go get some rest."

Chuckling, Hank made his way down to the cottage and after stepping inside, breathed deeply. The gentle scent of Lucy infused the air here, and he happily drank it in.

It was soothing and arousing at the same time and Hank moved to the small bedroom, moving quickly to sit and take off his shoes and coat. Here, the perfume of the woman deepened, and Hank guiltily plucked one of the pillows up, burying his nose into it and stifling a small groan.

He felt hot and cold and achingly alive for the moment, caught up in a tiny second of romantic madness before reluctantly setting the pillow down again and sliding under the coverlet. Hank stretched out and closed his eyes, feeling most of his big body relax.

Hank slept.

*** *** ***

Lenore's Smoke Pit was a small place set back off the main road and nestled among tall trees. It had one neon sign in the big picture window, and not much else in the way of décor, but what it lacked visually, it made up for in fragrance. Helena took in a deep breath and decided she definitely had an appetite as the enticing odors of grilled meat, sugary barbeque sauce and smoldering woodchips drifted out towards the truck.

"You can practically eat the smell!" she murmured.

Logan flashed her a grin. "Heady stuff, yep," he agreed, and climbed out. Helena got out, amused that he looked slightly annoyed not to have gotten her door for her.

"It's okay. I'm liberated, you know," she informed him.

Logan raised his eyebrows. "I always knew that—I was just trying to be date nice."

That made her laugh. "Date nice?"

"You set the rules," he reminded her. "I'm just following along. This is as mannerly as I get."

"I'll keep that in mind," Helena nodded, and took his hand. It was callused and big, but warm. They walked along the gravel parking lot to the front door of Lenore's without speaking.

A hefty waitress with a beehive 'do and too much blue eye shadow greeted them at the foyer. "Well if it isn't Mr. Full Rack of Ribs himself, and with a _date_! Gonna break Lenore's heart ya know, handsome."

"Lenore will live," Logan grunted, a half-smile on his face. "Back booth open?"

"Yep. Come on this way," the waitress murmured, and led them; her steps making the floorboards creak. Helena looked at Logan, a smile and a question on her face, but he shook his head and herded her forward.

The booth had high leather padded backs, making it a cozy nook lit by a feeble candle. Helena slid in on one side of the table and Logan took the other, his back to the wall, his gaze sweeping over the rest of the joint for a moment before he relaxed. The waitress set laminated menus down in front of them. "Usual brew for you?"

"Yeah. And the lady would like . . . ?" He glanced meaningfully at Helena, who shrugged.

"Whatever he's drinking is good for me too," she replied, setting her purse down next to her on the bench seat.

The waitress nodded. "Okay, I'll give you a few minutes to eyeball the goods and then I'll be back to take your order." She lumbered off, and Helena turned her glance back to Logan, waiting.

He sighed. "Lenore's the cook here."

"Flirted with her much?" Helena teased, trying to keep it light as she glanced through the menu.

Logan's eyes rolled. "Helena, trust me--she's _not_ my type."

"Hmmm," Helena offered.

Logan stiffened, and muttered softly under his breath. "Turn around and take a look. That should prove it to you."

Helena shifted, and caught sight of a woman coming through the swinging doors of the kitchen. For a moment she was outlined against the light, all six feet of her imposing in shadow, then she moved across the bar, the heavy muscles of her biceps were visible as she hoisted a keg of beer.

Helena snorted. "Oh. My."

"Exactly. She and I," Logan sighed, ". . . both have five o'clock shadow."

Helena smothered a laugh just as the waitress delivered the beers, frothy and cold in mugs. "Here ya go. So, know what you want?"

"You know my order," Logan grunted to the waitress. "With cole slaw. Helena?"

"The three rib special," she decided, "With the side salad, please."

"Sure thing, sweetie. Save room for the Sin cake!" the waitress cheerfully ordered while collecting the menus. "Back soon."

She rolled away, and Helena felt slightly shy. Clearly Logan was known here, and well. To cover her nervousness she sipped her beer. It was good; lighter than most, but tart and refreshing.

Logan nodded approvingly, and reached over to wipe her foamy upper lip with his thumb. "Cute."

"There's a word I'd never thought I'd hear from you," Helena murmured. His thumb lingered, and she was tempted to kiss it.

"Fits," he told her in a soft rumble. "Only three ribs, huh? You could have hit me up for more."

"Three will be fine."

"Wait until you taste them. I may have to defend my plate," Logan teased.

Helena breathed in the heavenly scents and gave a reluctant shrug. "You may be right because I _do_ have an appetite."

"Yeah, well save some for me," he muttered, enjoying her blush. Quickly, before she could pull away, Logan caught one of her hands in his and held it. "Got anything you wanna ask me? I hear women are supposed like honesty."

Helena blinked at him, catching the more serious undertone of his soft jest. Her face was still warm, so she looked away, towards the candle for a moment. "Um, okay. Why me?"

Logan looked puzzled. "Huh?"

"You heard me. Why me? There are," Helena sighed, "A lot of prettier women around. Ororo is gorgeous for example. And I know you don't like to talk about it, but I know you were fond of Jean."

"Ororo IS gorgeous, but she's not my type," Logan countered slowly. "And Jean . . . loved Scott, always. If I'd met her first . . . might have been a different story. Maybe."

Helena blinked. "I'm sorry."

Logan's hand tightened on hers. "You've got nothing to be sorry for," he assured her gruffly. "I've made my peace with it."

"Okay," she murmured uncertainly.

Logan gave her a slightly mulish look and leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Do you remember the night Skeeter puked his way through the hall to the john?"

"God," Helena winced. "Yes I do."

"I watched you wash him off, and reassure him he was going to be okay, and put him back into a _clean _bed and then helped you mop the floor and move the sheets and carpet out to the laundry, and the whole time I kept thinking about how damned beautiful you were. Your hair was down, and you had on that green nightgown, and you didn't hesitate a moment, Helena. Moved like that boy was your own, and did what had to be done."

"I . . ." she paused, startled. Logan shook his head in admiration.

"It sounds stupid, but part of me wanted to be that kid and be held like that. Just . . . comforted. Told that everything would be okay. I know it's nuts, but sometimes just a little thing like that can . . . remind you that we're all human, somewhere inside."

He looked embarrassed, and Helena felt a warmth through her chest. Lightly, she squeezed his hand. "Thank you."

"For what?" Logan mumbled, not meeting her eyes.

"For liking more of me than just my body," Helena laughed.

He looked up, indignant, eyes dark. "Gimme a break; I may not be as brainy as Xavier or Blue, but I'm not _that_ shallow!"

"So later tonight, we're going to play chess, right?"

Logan was saved from answering by the appearance of dinner; the waitress set down heavy china plates in front of them with a clatter.

"Okay, ribs and slaw for the gentleman, and special for the lady. Here are your towels and wipes—can I get you another beer?"

Receiving a shake of heads, the waitress beamed and headed off again, leaving Helena and Logan to contemplate the masterpieces before them.

"Dig in," Logan invited, and picked up a rib.


	9. Chapter 9

Dinner wasn't too much of a disaster. In the kitchen, it was apparent that Bobby and Hank were well-versed in spaghetti management, and Lucy was content to stay out of the way and sit with some of the younger students out in the dining room. She had a place of honor near Charles, who was demonstrating to Lauralee and Kitty how to balance a pair of interlocked forks on the edge of a glass.

"Balance has always been the art of finding just the right point between A and C," Charles told them serenely.

"The B, huh?" Kitty mused. "Like between night and day?"

"Or school and free time," Lauralee offered. "Can I try?"

"Of course, my dears, but be aware—it's trickier than it looks," Charles pointed out. "Appearances can be deceiving."

The girls made their attempts, laughing and dropping silverware time and time again at their places. Charles caught Lucy's eye and he lightly rolled his chair over towards her, speaking quietly.

"And so ends your first week—a success, I would say."

She nodded thoughtfully. "There's a lot to do, but overall, yes, I would call it productive. Charles, I'm updating everyone's records—"

"A wise idea, and I am at your convenience," he told her, nodding. "I'm sure Ororo and the others will be agreeable as well, but you may have trouble with Logan."

Lucy nodded. "Yes, I thought that might be the case. He . . . scares me."

"Logan scares many people," Charles agreed, smiling faintly. "Nevertheless, I have complete faith in him. He's not an easy person to get to know, Lucy. Give it time."

She nodded again, just as the call came for everyone to sit down for dinner. Lucy watched as Bobby came out with a huge pot of noodles and proceeded to dispense them to each person's plate in neat and practiced piles. Hank followed with a vat of sauce, ladling it over the noodles elegantly. When he reached her, she smiled.

"Chef as well; is there no end to your accomplishments, Hank McCoy?"

"I have yet to master a unicycle," he admitted cheerily.

After dinner, doing the dishes fell to Rogue and Ginger, with the younger kids helping to clear and sweep. Lucy offered to help but was shooed out. Feeling at a loss, she wandered out of the dining room, only to be caught up by Hank, who now wore sweat pants and a large tee-shirt with the Xavier school logo across the chest.

It was somewhat snug, Lucy noted with interest. Hank wasn't overweight, but the fit of the shirt across that broad expanse was definitely nice looking.

"Wrestling," he explained. "You're welcome to come and watch."

"Greco-Roman, or Freestyle?" she asked, earning a delighted smile from Hank.

"Freestyle, with an emphasis on the 'free' since I take on three or more," Hank murmured.

Lucy arched an eyebrow. "And this is all safe?"

"A mere puppy pile," Hank assured her. "Come and supervise; we'll all feel better if you do."

The gymnasium was spacious, with a polished wood floor, and long floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the woods. Several kids were already there, laying out the thick blue mats and chattering. When Hank arrived, they moved into groups, and Lucy noted they were by size.

"All right. Warm-ups . . . three laps, please," Hank ordered.

It took a while, but after everyone had warmed and stretched, Hank set them in pairs and had them practice. Lucy sat on one rolled-up mat and watched with interest. Hank, she realized, was a natural teacher; patient and encouraging, with a good memory for names and aptitudes. He moved around the mats praising and correcting the athletes.

"Need to get a better grip, Skeeter, otherwise you'll lose him . . . Josh, plant your feet wider, for balance. Excellent Michi, excellent!"

At the end of the session came the clashing, and it was clear from the roar of delight that the students all looked forward to this. In groups of three the students attempted to best Hank, who took them on with serene confidence, shaking them off and pinning them easily. The game was much more intense against the older students, and Lucy noted that Hank was faster and rougher with them, using advanced holds and pins.

Still, it was great fun, and by the time it was over, most of the kids were sprawled out across the mats, red-faced and laughing. Hank dismissed them, urging them to shower before bed. They trooped out, sweaty and cheerful, until she and Hank were the only two left in the gym.

"I'm impressed," she told him with a smile. "How far did you go?"

"Collegiate," he admitted. "But I was more interested in academics, and since I was already a mutant by then, there were officials who felt I no longer qualified for competition."

He said it lightly, but Lucy could see and smell the old pain within him; his scent was tinted with ashy regret.

"You're good, both as a wrestler and a teacher," she reassured him. "You've got a wicked double reverse there; would have given my brother Roger a damned hard time."

Hank smiled, a hint of fang tips showing through. "Spoken like a woman who knows what she's talking about."

Lucy laughed. "I was forced to pair up with him more than once, for practice. He hated that I could break out of most of his pins."

"Is that a fact?" Hank noted, half in gentle disbelief, half in amusement. "He must have been in a junior division."

"Do you doubt my ability, Doctor McCoy?" Lucy hooted, hands on her hips. "Because you might be able to catch me, but you damned well won't keep me."

"Doctor San Marcos, be reasonable. I outweigh you by nearly a hundred and seventy pounds and have been wrestling _far_ longer than you have."

"Are you sure you're blue? Because I'm seeing a bit of yellow—"

Hank gave her a skeptical look. "_I_ am a gentleman."

"You're good against kids, mostly—but I don't think you can get me for the count," Lucy sighed. "A shame, really."

"You are goading me into something you'll regret," he told her, his voice lower. "I don't want to hurt you, Lucy."

She kicked off her sneakers, turned and gestured to him. "Two second count, come on, azule guapo, let's see if you can do it."

Hank's nose twitched. Lucy's taunt was light and sweet; tinted with affection, and her scent was infused with honeysuckle. He tossed aside the hand towel he'd used for his temples and moved to the center of the mat, flexing his muscles and crouching. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Lucy set aside her glasses, keys and cell phone on the rolled up mat before she came over and took a stance opposite him, her expression suddenly fierce.

"Go," she called, and danced to the left, slipping an arm around his thick neck.

Hank turned in the opposite direction, moving quickly out of her grasp, and hooked his other arm around her waist, spinning with her in a quick drop to the mat. She was down on her back, and he cupped her shoulders with his palms pressing hard. "One, tw—"

Lucy folded up her body up and with a heave, rolled backwards, toes nearly grazing his head. Hank tried to grab her once more, but she was on her feet, moving left again, her dark hair loose now. "Try again."

"Oh I will," he snapped, and charged, looping one arm towards her hips. Lucy side-stepped in a quick double hop and turned as Hank's momentum carried him forward. She jumped onto his back, and nearly got him to the mat; Hank dropped on one knee and rolled on that side, making her squawk as his back landed half-way on her and he shifted for the pin, one muscled arm across her chest.

He breathed heavily holding his arm taut, "One, tw—"

Lucy wriggled, twisting like an eel, her shirt bunching up as she somehow managed to slide under the back of his arm and roll to her feet. She backed up quickly, tossing her hair out of her eyes, hands out. "I know you can do it--"

"_Now _you're definitely starting to annoy me," Hank rumbled, and leaped in one quick bound, knocking her to the ground, his bigger, heavier frame pinning her down. Considerately he'd caught the back of her head in one heavy palm, keeping it from slamming onto the mat.

Lucy breathed up into his face, her eyes bright. "That wasn't a wrestling move," she protested, faintly.

"I fail to see a referee in the immediate area calling me on it. One," Hank counted in a slightly gloating tone, "Tw—unnngh---"

Lucy shimmied her stomach against his, wriggling with slow, salacious pressure and Hank groaned, instantly losing focus as his body rocked forward. The warm cradle of her hips under him was impossible to ignore, as was the sudden shift of her scent from honeysuckle to hot peaches and Tabasco.

That dangerous seductive scent from the train, when he'd rubbed her feet.

"Tw--" Hank tried again in slightly strangled voice, but Lucy lifted her head, her hot sweet mouth barely making contact, and coherent, rational thought vaporized for him as those plump soft lips lightly brushed his.

He was too stunned to react to her quick pushing, and Lucy managed to roll the both of them over until Hank lay on his back and the lovely dark curtain of her hair tickled his face.

She straddled him easily and spoke, the heat of her winded breath against his mouth. "Niiiiice. Um, one, tw--"

Hank turned and ducked his head, and then swiped the vulnerable underside of her chin with his tongue. The wet soft rasp along one of the most ticklish parts of her body made Lucy squirm, her thighs tightening around him. Hank gripped her hips and surged, rolling the both of them once again.

On top once more, he groaned into her face. "Competitive, aren't you, my dear?"

Under him, Lucy nodded, looking dazed and delicious. "'Fraid so."

She was about to say something more, or kiss him, Hank fervently hoped, when the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the open door of the gym.

They pulled apart at the speed of guilt, busying themselves as Taymor looked in, already in his pajamas.

"Movie night's starting . . . we're gonna watch Iron Man. Kitty told me to tell you so you guys don't miss it."

"Th-thanks," Lucy managed, slipping into her sneakers. "Be right there."

She hurried, moving faster than Hank, and slipped out of the door, leaving him standing alone in the gym, slightly stunned and lost in thought.

*** *** ***

The night was clear, and Helena could see the stars overhead, framed by the circle of the pine trees. She blinked, feeling nervous, wishing she had brushed her teeth. Next to her, Logan leaned against the hood of the truck, holding out something small and glittery to her.

The keys.

Helena looked confused, and Logan managed a shrug. "Call it . . . insurance. We go home when _you_ say."

It was an unexpectedly simple act of trust, and Helena slowly took them, touched by his gesture. He moved closer as she pocketed the keys, and looked skyward in silence.

They were in a glade down along one of the seldom-used side roads for Graymalkin Lane, and even though the school was only a mile or two away, the woods here were dark and cool.

She drew in a breath. "That's Orion's Belt," Helena pointed. "Three across and three down forming his sword."

"Yeah. Dipper's along the horizon, too low to see," Logan commented. "Along with the North star."

"You like the stars?" Helena asked, a little surprised.

He gave a slow nod. "They're always there," Logan muttered. "People take them for granted. Sort of like you."

"Hey now, nobody's taking me for granted," she protested gently, moving closer to him. Logan slipped an arm around her, his smile slightly crooked.

"Ah, they do sometimes. I think you do more than your share and nobody around here realizes it. Like that vegetable garden, and the ironing."

"I don't mind," Helena admitted. "The professor gives me a lot of leeway, and I _like_ the challenge to make a place like this function smoothly."

"All work, no play," came his whisper. "You deserve better."

"And I'm getting it," she turned, looking into his face. The light was dim, but Logan's warmth and scent comforted Helena. "I hope."

He laughed, the sound low and pleased. Without a word, Logan slowly bent towards her, and Helena moved with an equal slowness, moving gently into his space, feeling his heat against her face as she kissed him.

It was sweet, and gentle; a kiss tinged with shyness, and Helena laughed softly against his mouth.

Logan pulled back. "What?" came his slightly puzzled question.

She slid her hands up to cup his face, the scratchy brush of his sideburns tickling her palms. "Nothing. I'm just so nervous and then you go and do something tender like that--"

"Yeah, well I'm nervous too. It's been a long damned time, and I'm not good about . . . being patient," Logan admitted gruffly. "And if you tell anyone I was tender--I'll deny it."

"Can I put it in my diary?" Helena teased, and before he could protest, she surged up against his mouth, kissing him warmly.

The move caught him off-guard, and Logan groaned, his arms tightening around her waist as he pulled her closer against him.

They didn't speak after that; it was easy to communicate with more kisses and soft sighs. Helena took her time exploring his flavors and enjoying his warmth. Logan had his own masculine taste; an intriguing blend with hints of tobacco and beer. She learned he _liked_ kissing, and was devilishly good at it, moving from deep, powerful, breath-stealing ones to delicate teasing ones that wandered across her cheeks and chin.

The tension was back, coiling tightly behind her navel, and Helena moved to let Logan nibble along her neck, feeling hot and restless now. They were still up against the hood of the truck, pressing hard against each other, and she could feel him straddle one thigh.

"Logan," Helena whispered, and rocked against him.

He was going out of his mind.

Logan knew he was hot for her; had been since the first week he'd met Helena, but this sugar and cream heat in his arms was beyond anything he'd lazily fantasized about. The taste of Helena, the warm, firm press of those hips and God, that chest—

He kissed her collarbone, shifting her blouse a bit, savoring the scent of hot feminine skin under his lips, and fought against the impulse to grind against her, hard.

"More," Helena whispered, and he muffled a growl against that lovely hollow at the base of her throat. One hand slid up under her unbuttoned coat, and Logan cupped the underside of one full breast. His nostrils flared as Helena shuddered against him.

"Like?" he asked, his breath gusting against her cheek.

The sound she made—the low, soft pleasured noise—made Logan grin. He nipped gently just under her ear. Helena writhed, her own hands moving as she did so, clutching him tightly.

He wasn't sure how it happened, but after a while her blouse was unbuttoned, and her bra pushed up. Logan lost no time in savoring the exposed and velvety beauty of Helena's breasts.

Warm, firm, lush . . . Logan feared he was going to come in his jeans if he didn't get some control, that was for damned sure.

It was difficult to be gentle; he didn't want to hurt her, but at the same time she was breathing hard and pulling his hair. Then he kissed one hard nipple, opening his mouth around it and Helena cried out, spasming against his thigh in sharp, helpless jerks.

Logan tightened his embrace around her, holding Helena as she slumped against him, spent and soft, an armful of sated woman pinned against the hood of the truck. Reluctantly he gave the nipple a last, loving lick and bent to kiss the other one before lifting his head to look Helena in the eyes.

"Needed that, huh?" he asked quietly, his smirk an intimate gloat.

Helena sighed happily, and moved to brush her tangled hair from her face. She felt amazingly languid. "Yeeeaaaah."

"Don't say it like that," Logan growled in frustration. "I'm already way too primed myself."

"Really?" she murmured, smiling."Then we should _do _something about that."

"Helena, you don't—" he tried to say, but she dropped one hand to the rivet of his jeans and undid it, then tugged the zipper down in one quick pull.

Freed, his erection surged forth, right into her palm, and Logan groaned through gritted teeth as Helena wrapped her warm fingers around his girth, making a pleased sound. "Ohhh nice! Commando!"

"Baby--" he grunted, torn between lust and embarrassment, but Helena bent to kiss his neck while she stroked, and the sensation made him growl helplessly. Logan arched his head, hips rocking forward, too aroused to stop now, caught in the sweet friction of her fingers around him.

He thrust, and she stroked for a few sensual moments; the combination held maddening pleasure, and Logan panted, feeling the unstoppable surge moving with sultry power through his heavy shaft. He clamped his hand over hers, angling away, and the thick hot spurts flared out, spattering on the damp ground. Logan muffled a long grunt of animal pleasure, the sound hot against Helena's throat.

She held him, fingers milking the last of his orgasm, and he drew in a deep, shuddering breath before lightly pulling her fingers away. Helena fished in her coat pocket for a tissue, handing it to him as she smirked. "And y_ou_ needed _that_."

"Damn right I did," Logan admitted, his crooked smile tinged with embarrassment and humor as he wiped himself clean. "Geez, you have one dirty grip, sweetheart."

"Given what I was trying to hang on to . . ," came Helena's soft laugh. "That was . . . fabulous."

"It's been called a lot of things, but fabulous is a new one," Logan mused, zipping himself up and pulling her into his arms. "Come here."

He leaned back against the hood of the truck and held her close, kissing Helena's temple, enjoying the scent and feel of her against him. She cuddled close, sighing happily and they stayed that way for a while.

"I wasn't expecting . . . anything," Logan told her quietly. Helena looked up at him in surprise, and he shrugged, his expression unrepentant. "Hoping, but not expecting."

Helena laughed, and tightened her arms around him, "Know what? Me too. It's been a really _good_ first date."

"Two more to go," Logan agreed with a contented sigh. "You and those fingers are gonna kill me—looking forward to it."


	10. Chapter 10

Lucy felt guilty. She slept badly, thinking over what she'd done for hours before finally falling asleep. Between feeling angry at herself for manipulating Hank and feeling aroused at the memory of his enticing scent and warm weight on her, she managed only a little rest, and rose in a grumpy mood.

Fortunately Charles refused to note it, and kept his pleasant demeanor as he drove with her into the township proper to help her set up a bank account and take care of any number of small residency matters necessary to establishing her employment at the school.

Afterwards, he let her push his chair down the street, and the faint, cold sunshine put Lucy in a better mood. They reached a small clapboard Episcopal Church and Charles gave a nod towards it. "Hank and I will be attending there tomorrow, and you're welcome to join us if you wish."

"Thank you. Maybe soon," Lucy murmured, noting the posted schedule along the front glass-fronted bulletin board. She paused, and Charles turned to look at her, his eyes clear.

"Yes, they are here," he assured her, as she bit her lips, looking nervously towards the doors. "It starts in a few minutes, and I can come back for you after I've purchased all the groceries on Helena's list, if that's agreeable, Lucy."

"You'll be all right?" she asked, concerned.

Charles gave her a serene smile."I will. I've lived in this town for over twenty years, and my family for generations before that. Go, I'll be here when you're ready to head back to the school."

Lucy nodded, and drew a breath as Charles Xavier rolled himself along the sidewalk towards the supermarket.

She turned to walkway leading around to the parish hall and made her way inside, where a circle of folding chairs was already half filled with people.

Lucy slipped into the nearest empty one, feeling a sense of relief. A man in one of the chairs caught her glance and smiled at her.

Further along in the ring, a teenage girl was standing and speaking. "Hi, I'm Suzette, and I'm an alcoholic . . ."

It had taken a long time for Hank to fall asleep as well. In the later hours of the night, he had ruefully given in to his arousal, allowing himself to relieve his tumescence by reliving the lovely sensual memory of pinning Lucy under him. She'd been so pliant and warm, lushly scented and beautiful with her dark hair loose around her shoulders . . .

Hank acknowledged to himself that even Lucy's playful competitiveness was arousing, and he indulged in a few moments of wishful projection into an impossibly sweet future of nonsense involving marriage, a home and family before snorting to himself in the dark.

Out of the question. He was a blue-furred anomaly with very little chance of the life other people had. Hank had accepted that long ago; initially with depression but with more serenity as the years had passed.

He was what he was, a mutant, and for his ilk, the future rarely had white picket fences and swings in the back yard.

By late morning Hank was wrapping up his Modern Ethics seminar class and thinking about reprogramming the Danger Room when Oliver trudged by the emptying classroom door, red-eyed.

Hank sensed the boy's sorrow and called him in; Oliver sniffled and did.

"He's dead."

"Who's dead, Oliver?" Hank asked, slightly worried.

"Rambo, my turtle."

"I'm so sorry," Hank murmured, caught between genuine pity and a self-censored chuckle at the name. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Kitty looked at him and went to go get a Sucrets box to bury him in," Oliver sighed, wiping his face. "It really hurts inside me because Rambo was a good turtle and was mine."

The boy looked up. He was a round, solid child with the ability to become invisible; a talent he'd used far too often in his former abusive home. Hank slipped an arm around him and hugged him gently. "Letting go does hurt, Oliver. Would you like me to be there when you bury him?"

"Yes," came the relieved assent. "Taymor says he was just a stupid turtle. Do you think that?"

"No," Hank assured Oliver. "I do not."

An hour later, Lucy turned the corner of the building just in time to hear Hank's quiet words, and she instinctively moved over to the little group, joining them.

"Turtles have their place in the scheme of things; in this instance, Rambo was here to give comfort and delight to us. He had a short life, but one full of care and love and he will be missed," Hank intoned solemnly as he and Oliver stood together at the fist-sized hole along the garden hedge.

"Amen," Oliver sighed and set the lozenge box inside. He carefully pushed the dirt over it, working with deliberation, scooping handfuls in until the mounded dirt rose above the wet leaves on the lawn. He looked up bleakly. "We don't have a cross."

"I have a stone," Hank told the boy, and squatted down, holding a heavy cut square of streaked marble. Lucy blinked at it, realizing it was a paperweight.

"That's a good one," Oliver agreed, and together he and Hank set the paperweight on the dark mound of dirt. For a moment, nobody said anything, and then Oliver shook his head.

"I have to wash my hands. Goodbye Rambo," he murmured, and trotted away towards the kitchen door.

Lucy looked up at Hank, feeling a lump in her throat. He met her gaze and sighed himself. "Lucy—"

She stepped closer and took one of his hands. "I need to apologize, Hank. About yesterday. I . . . cheated, and played the, um, gender card and I'm not proud of that. I don't know what got into me except I don't always take teasing as well as I should, and I'm sorry."

Hank blinked; whatever he'd been expecting, this wasn't it. He managed a crooked smile. "You have no need to apologize, my dear._ I_ was over-confident and yes, condescending, which I consider the greater sin. If anyone needs to apologize, I do."

Lucy laughed softly, and slid into his hug, squeezing Hank. He hugged back, and the tension left them both. She looked up into his face. "That was the best turtle eulogy I've ever heard, by the way."

"Thank you," Hank replied. "I confess I wasn't personally acquainted with the deceased, but I did try to speak in comforting generalities."

"You did a lovely job, and the paperweight was a very considerate touch," Lucy assured him, letting go and stepping back.

"It seemed like the right thing," Hank told her. "So, all done with the ins and outs of establishing residency?"

"Something like that," came her sigh. "Mesa Medical are highly annoyed with me, but I can live with that. At the moment, I'm here to round you up for your physical, Hank. Since you're only here for the weekends, I need to start with you while I have you—is that all right?"

"Lead on," he murmured. "I'm not sure what records Jean left behind, but I'll do my best to help augment them. Er, you weren't serious about the stethoscope were you?"

Lucy laughed.

She'd chosen the upstairs office rather than the medical unit down below, and Hank appreciated the little touches Lucy had already brought to the place, particularly the flowers on her desk.

He looked around, trying to relax as he leaned, shirtless, against the exam table. Hank knew she'd seen him in far less, but this was . . . official.

Lucy was taking his pulse; she looked over the tops of her glasses at him. "A little quick, I think. Do you have hypertension in your family?"

"Yes, unfortunately," Hank admitted.

She nodded, and made a note on the chart touchpad, then held up the stethoscope and smirked.

Hank braced himself, but Lucy leaned closer and as she pressed the metal disc to his chest, he realized it was in fact, slightly warmer than room temperature. Puzzled, he glanced down at her, but Lucy's concentrated expression didn't invite questions, so Hank waited until she'd finished before shooting her a look.

Lucy rolled her eyes. "Generally I warm up the head of it by tucking it into the crook of my elbow as I'm taking a patient's pulse. Remember--I deal with_ little_ people, who can be very fussy about cold things. Your heart sounds massive and reassuringly healthy, Hank. I see a notation in your files that your healing factor is accelerated but only moderately so?"

"Not up to Logan's speed, but I heal within the week of an injury. Or month, as the case may be. What _are_ you doing?" Hank asked curiously as Lucy dragged over a chair. She made him sit in it, and then stood behind him, her hands running over his head and shoulders.

Her touch was gentle and Hank closed his eyes as her fingers raked through his hair, shifting down the thick scruff at the back of his neck.

"Taking a few notes, Doctor McCoy. Hmmmm. The hair on your head is still very human in texture," Lucy commented. "It's on the thick side, which bears out your European ancestors, but your fur is _fas_cinating! It's _not_ typical body hair, and certainly finer than that of a simian," Lucy told him matter-of-factly, her fingers running around his shoulder blades. "In fact, I can see defined and lovely layers to your pelage, Hank."

"You're the first person to notice," he murmured, slightly embarrassed. "Although the general . . . placement of it matches that of my formerly human form."

"You still have a human form," Lucy corrected him. "A fairly handsome one too. The closest comparison for your coat would be that of a cat or a dog, I suppose—the texture is incredibly fine across the muscles and exposed surfaces. Lift your arm."

"Lucy—"He protested, but she reached under and into his pit, tugging lightly, smirking over his shoulder.

"Ah, axillary androgenic hair seems right, so the human distribution template is still the dominant one."

"Apparently," Hank replied, trying not to blush.

"I'll assume it's the same case . . . elsewhere."Lucy murmured, and bent her nose down to sniff his shoulder. "Your own natural scent of course—I'd know it anywhere—and some others. Odors cling to fur, so from what I can breathe in here, I can tell you've been in the garden, and in one of the classrooms and also in the kitchen. And I smell . . . sponge cake, artificial cream--Twinkies?"

"I . . . . have a fondness for them," Hank admitted defensively. "They were part of my lunch."

"I'll have to remember that," Lucy chuckled. "Let's have a look at your ears." She slid off the table and moved to his side, peering through the otiscope into the right one. "Clean and healthy. And the other one . . ."

Lucy enjoyed the exam; it was a guilty pleasure to be able to explore Hank even though it was in a professional capacity of course. She checked his throat and fangs, looked at his eyes and tested his reflexes, keeping her manner gentle. She could tell he was a tiny bit nervous and that amused her for some personal reason.

"All right, I'll do a fasting blood draw tomorrow at eight—no Twinkies or anything else after dinner tonight—and I'm going to assume you're up to date on all your standard childhood immunizations?"

"Egads, I'm fairly certain I am, but I'd have to call my mother to make sure," Hank murmured. He reached for his shirt, and Lucy cleared her throat.

"Hank, with fur like yours . . . you do . . . groom, don't you?"

He gave a wry nod. "I must. Quite frankly, the first year after I grew this pelt, I was clogging shower drains weekly."

"And you have the tools to do so?" Lucy asked gently. "I don't mean to pry, but . . ."

"Curry combs and dog brushes," Hank sighed. "In bulk. Why?"

"Your back could use some help," Lucy told him. "And I know those particular items don't come with long handles."

"If you're offering, I accept, with alacrity. You may regret it, though," Hank bluffed, blushing a little again, but Lucy shrugged, her hands in her lab coat pockets.

"My best friend in high school worked part time as a groomer, so I know _something_ about it. And you've got fantastic fur; it would be a shame not to show it off to the best advantage."

Hank looked at her for a moment, not blinking, and Lucy felt suddenly shy at his scrutiny. "What?" she asked, uncertainly.

"You really _do_ like this ridiculous hide of mine, don't you?" he asked quietly.

She nodded.

*** *** ***

Through the late afternoon, Helena hummed, moving around the kitchen with the quiet pleasure of a woman hard at work on what she loved. Several pies and loaves of bread appeared, along with quick batches of lasagna and tuna casserole, waiting to be frozen and saved for later school dinners.

The challenge of cooking for thirty people had always been slightly daunting, but over time she'd found pleasure in it, mostly because they were so grateful. Helena rotated cooking assistants on a caper chart, working with students to show them the basics of food preparation as part of an extracurricular activity.

Some had a flair for cooking, like Bobby. Some, like Skeeter--who currently held the Xavier School record for setting potholders on fire--did not. Patiently Helena supervised them all, and took a talented few under her wing, helping them master more complicated recipes and assist with the holidays.

She smiled. Thanksgiving was coming up, and that meant three turkeys and extra drumsticks, not to mention all the trimmings and side dishes. It also meant twice the usual desserts, and bringing in the long table from storage in the back parlor. All extra work, but worth it to see everyone happy and fed.

This year Helena hoped Logan would be here.

The man was unpredictable of course, taking off for extended trips to unknown places; disappearing without accountability to anyone, returning just as unexpectedly. Nobody knew what he did, and nobody had the courage to ask—she understood that. It was just the way Logan was.

And yet the memory of their encounter stayed in her thoughts, and she hoped he would be around for the holiday. There was tenderness to the man—well-hidden under his gruff personal—a tenderness she wanted to see again.

Along with other things.

Blushing at this last, Helena pulled the last pie from the big stove and set it to cool with the others along the marble counter. At that moment, Charles rolled in, nose twitching. "Ah! Baking—the scent is carrying down the hall, enticing enough that I felt compelled to stop by."

"Just laying a few meals by, and getting a dessert done before dinner tonight," Helena told him sweetly. "It's hard to work on something like pies with students around, helpful though they try to be. Shall we have some?"

Charles nodded, moving his chair towards the nook. Expertly Helena sliced two servings of peach for them and slipped into one of the chairs, joining him. The nook had a lovely bay window that overlooked part of the garden, and for a moment they ate in companionable silence.

Finally Charles sighed. "Helena, that was delicious; thank you."

She looked at him, hearing a faintly melancholy tone to his voice. "Are you all right, Charles?"

He turned his gaze from the window and gave her a gentle smile. "Do you remember when we first met?"

That came out of the blue and Helena laughed, her hands cupping the mug of coffee in front of her. "Yes . . ."

It had been one of the most fortuitous moments in her life. She'd just gotten divorced and had been sleeping on the couch of a friend in town, trying desperately to find a job higher than minimum wage and having damned little luck. Fortunately, she'd decided to stop in at the grocery store on the same day that Charles Xavier was there at the same time.

He'd been trying to figure out the difference between liquid bleach and powdered bleach, and Helena pointed out the uses for each, and recommended particular brands. That had led to a discussion of laundry—a subject that Charles admitted he knew little about on the practical level—and they'd ended up shopping together, with Helena's suggestions filling up three carts.

Charles related that his school had just lost their housekeeper, who'd retired to be with her sister in California and by the time Helena helped him buy and load the purchases into the school's Range Rover, he'd offered her the position.

"I still can't believe you did that," Helena mused. "Gave me a job out of the blue like that."

"You were then and still are, highly competent, honest, friendly and kind, Helena. And you are _not _a mutant. I think it's important to have someone on staff who isn't," Charles told her. "Too often in the past our students have been isolated from the greater part of society, and integration must begin here."

Helena looked down, embarrassed at the compliment.

Charles sighed. "Difficult times are coming, Helena. The hate groups are getting stronger, and I can sense a rise in the Brotherhood all through the country. Hank is trying his best to put forth a good face, but lines are being drawn."

"I know," she murmured softly. "I've seen the news and heard some of the gossip, but we're fairly safe here, right?"

Charles shot her a quick glance. "We are safe. I just want you to be prepared if things change, for they may, and far quicker than we know."

She nodded. "We'll do our best."

"I know, and I am grateful," he intoned lightly, his gaze kind. "You make this school more of a haven with your pie than I can ever do with all my books."

That made Helena laugh, and she leaned forward to pick up his empty plate. "*All* of us together make a whole refuge, Charles, and it's good to be considered one of the team."

"Always," he assured her warmly. "Always."


	11. Chapter 11

Lucy tried to get control of herself before making her way down the hall towards the room where Hank was staying. He had the room off the end of the upstairs main hall; a smaller suite that was generally reserved for his weekend visits. The door was open and she closed her eyes, focusing quickly on making her scent as light and unobtrusive as possible.

It took effort though, to monitor her own attraction to Hank, she acknowledged to herself. The man had charm, intelligence, wit and a kindly nature, all traits which held tremendous appeal for her.

Those Lucy felt she could handle.

The trickier aspect was dealing with the pheromones he exuded; the tantalizing natural scent of his masculinity that constantly bombarded her senses and sent her own hormones rising in response. It had been that way from the first moment she'd encountered him at Waffle World and her awareness of their biological chemistry had gotten stronger with proximity.

Even now she wasn't sure that grooming him was a safe idea, but Hank needed it on more than one level, and as a nurturing soul who cared about him, Lucy couldn't ignore that. The door was ajar and she knocked, taking a deep breath as she did so.

"Come in," came his absent invitation, and Lucy peered around the door to see him look up from a copy of the Iliad. He seemed to be typing up seminar notes from the original Greek text. "Just a moment . . . I want to get this last line done . . ."

"No hurry," she assured him and looked around the room.

The furniture was classic, as in the rest of the school, but older and sturdier, built along functional lines with little ornamentation. Plush, carpet, pale cream drapes, seascapes on the walls. Lucy approved of the simple cherry wood dresser and king-sized Georgian four-poster bed. She wandered over to pick up a framed photo from the dresser, and smiled at the elderly couple posed in it, arms around each other.

"Your parents?"

Hank rose and padded over, his expression almost shy. "Yes. They're currently on a Winnebago excursion through Canada of all things and won't be back until after Christmas. My mother's dream trip."

"Sounds lovely," Lucy murmured aware of Hank looking over her shoulder. "I can see you have your father's nose."

"Family legacy," came his wry reply. He took the picture and set it down again, then looked to Lucy, who smiled up at him. "You know I'm exceedingly nervous about this."

"I promise not to hurt you," Lucy crossed her heart, choosing to make light of his words. It seemed to help, and Hank motioned to a small duffle bag that sat on one corner of his desk.

"Very well. Choose your weapon," he offered. Lucy moved to the bag and peered in, looking carefully at each item.

She settled on a wide brush with short metal bristles that had rounded tips, and took it in hand, getting a good grip on it. "All right, now I need you to sit down somewhere . . . ."

Hank took the rolling desk chair and straddled it backwards, leaning his big forearms on the back of it. "Like this?"

"Exactly. Shirt—" Lucy ordered softly, and moved towards him.

Hank peeled off his tee-shirt, neatly setting it aside on the desk with his glasses, and gave a little sigh as he tried to look over his shoulder. "How bad is it?"

"Not bad," Lucy assured him, looking over his vast and muscular expanse with a little sigh of pleasure. The tiny matted tangles here and there were more a matter of lint and soap residue, not dirt, and she knew once she'd combed him out, the particles would clear and he'd feel better. She moved closer and laid her free hand on his shoulder. "Have you been itchy?"

"A bit. I hypothesized I was allergic to the laundry soap used on the shirts," Hank mumbled as her hand moved down his shoulder blade, pressing it lightly.

"This is mostly lint. I think you need to shave the pills out of your dress shirts, Doctor McCoy, and get brushed regularly," Lucy prescribed. She began stroking the brush from the spine outwards, moving slowly along the fur and muscles, taking care not to tug.

She brushed his shoulders, moving smoothly, and by the fourth stroke found a comfortable rhythm to the job. Lucy breathed in the shift in Hank, whose scent was fractionally more relaxed, and smiled at the back of his head. "So, tell me, what should I expect when the FBI shows up?"

Hank coached her gently, his attention torn between the gentle currying he was receiving and the information at hand. Lucy's scent held a deeper sweetness to it, and the slow raking of the brush across his shoulder blades had him close to purring, to his embarrassment. There was something immensely satisfying in being touched this way; a caress and caretaking all in one, and Hank intuitively sensed it could become addictive.

His former girlfriend, Trish had never done such a thing; she admired his strength and intellect, but any physical reminders of his mutation bothered her and she ignored them as much as possible. When the media questioned their relationship, she'd ended it with unseemly haste, Hank recalled, not even bothering to do so face to face.

That had hurt, and Hank pushed the memory away, unwilling to dwell on past pains when the simple pleasures of the moment were so much more upbeat. Lucy was humming softly, and the scrape of the brush felt wonderful.

"Hmmm . . . I'm having trouble with the curve of your ribs," Lucy said softly. "Stand up for a moment, would you, Hank?"

Reluctantly he did. "Thank you; that was lovely," he began, but Lucy smirked up at Hank.

"Not over yet. Put your arms around me, please--"

"Oh _must _I?" Hank murmured in mock-petulance, his soft smile in contrast to his words. Carefully he slid her into a hug, and Lucy reached around him as well. She slowly stroked the brush along his right flank, the bristles smoothing through the fur along his ribs.

Hank gave a slightly strangled sigh in pleasured reaction to the sensations. To be groomed was wonderful; to have Lucy snuggled in his arms at the same time, smelling of spicy peach and so beautifully curvy and solid was nearly overwhelming.

Response was inevitable and swift; Hank held still and hoped against all odds that Lucy would miss it, even though his scent was probably giving him away.

Then she pressed herself closer, passing the brush from one hand to the other behind his back, and Hank knew there was absolutely no way the woman in his arms could possibly be unaware of his state of arousal.

"Haaannnnk . . ." came her little whisper, the tone low.

He closed his eyes, swallowing hard. "I suppose I should say I'm sorry, but I'm not the slightest bit, Lucy. You are beautiful and against that I have no defense, dear heart. I will understand if you choose to leave now---"

His noble speech was cut off when Lucy laid her free fingers against his mouth. Hank stopped speaking and arched an eyebrow when she looked at him intently for a moment.

"Hank, do you want to kiss me?" she asked quietly.

"By everything under heaven; yes!" he managed around her fingers.

"Then . . . I think you should," Lucy agreed in a thick, slow voice, "because I want that as well."

She found it gratifying to see his nostrils flare slightly, and noted how dark his eyes were as Hank stared into her face. With a sigh, Lucy let go of her rigid control, finally allowing her scent to respond to his in full and natural measure

They locked gazes for a moment longer, and then together lunged into a hard, hungry kiss, clinging to each other tightly in a wave of mutual passion. Lucy wrapped herself Hank, her hands dropping the brush and slipping to grip his broad shoulders as she opened her mouth to his.

His heartfelt, growly groan thrilled her, as did his quick tug as he pulled her against him. Lucy gurgled, kissing and chuckling at the same time as tongue, fangs, hot lips and little hungry moans all swept her senses away. She was dimly aware that Hank had lifted her off the carpet, pinning her up against his chest, but it didn't matter because his he was kissing her again, richly and sweetly, stealing her breath away.

"Ohhhhmystarsandgarters, I've _wanted_ to do this for so long," Hank managed in a dazed growl. "You've _no_ idea!"

"Me too," Lucy replied breathlessly. "Do it again!"

That made him chuckle, and Hank swung her around. Lucy squeaked and clung to him. "Hank!"

"Elation in action," he murmured, "joy unconstrained! However . . . ." he reluctantly set her down again, "If you insist."

"I must," Lucy reminded him with a twinkle in her glance. "Your door is open, you know."

"I'd forgotten, actually," Hank replied, not bothering to glance towards it. "My attention was elsewhere."

"Mine too, however; I'm not about to broadcast this private moment for anyone passing by," Lucy murmured, brushing a strand of her hair back and striving for dignity. Her dimple deepened as Hank reached to cup her cheek a moment, his gaze warm and tender.

"So it's safe to assume this attraction is mutual?" came Hank's whisper, and tiny hints of uncertainty in his voice made Lucy turn her face against his palm and kiss it.

"Yes," she admitted cheerfully. "The truth is that I'm a complete sucker for erudite hirsute intellectuals."

"You're in luck," Hank replied. "Frankly I have an innate weakness for brilliant brunettes with glasses and curvy hips, myself."

Lucy laughed. "That's sexist! I didn't say a_ word_ about your hunky shoulders and cute ass."

"You didn't have to," Hank murmured, slipping his arms around her once again, smirking. "I have a nose too, Doctor San Marcos. You're not the only one around here with smell-o-vision."

"Oh that's _terrible!"_ She protested, but moved to kiss his lower lip. Hank felt the need to kiss her in return, and did so.

Repeatedly.

Lucy kissed him as well, and after a while pulled back, sighing contentedly. "This isn't normal, you know. We've only known each other for a day or two short of two weeks, Hank, and there's still a lot you don't know about me. I'm not as nice a person as you seem to think."

"Nice is a highly subjective adjective, and frankly, I'm looking forward to uncovering other aspects of you . . .er . . ." he trailed off, slightly lavender in the face at the innuendo.

Lucy pressed herself into the soft fur of his chest, laughing, and Hank sighed. "Freudian, I know. But we _are _mutants, and normal doesn't apply to us on many levels, Lucy my dear. Yes, we've only spent a short time together in the chronological sense, but the depth and intensity of our association feels far beyond that of normal, by any standard."

"Agreed," Lucy replied in a muffled voice. "I feel it too. The question is—will this be a problem, Hank? You once asked me if I was involved with anyone, but I didn't ask the same of you."

"I have three women in my life," Hank solemnly told her. "My mother, Aggie, and you. I think that's more than enough at the moment."

"Mmmm," Lucy agreed. "I'll accept that."

He walked her back to the cottage, both of them moving slowly, to make the evening last. At the door, Hank spoke up. "I'll be departing tomorrow shortly after services; I wish I could delay it, but my presence is needed in Washington."

"I understand," Lucy sighed, leaning her back against the frame. "It sucks to have a work ethic, doesn't it?"

"At this moment, utterly," Hank agreed with an intimate smile. "Nevertheless, the week will be short because of the holiday, and I should be back by Wednesday night or Thursday morning at the latest. Do you play football?"

She stared askance at him, and Hank elaborated. "Traditionally we play touch football, students versus faculty on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Right now we're a bit light on the faculty side with only myself, Ororo and Logan lined up against our pupils."

"Logan has to be the equivalent of three people," Lucy pointed out, "and you, four."

"And Ororo three as well. Charles officiates and Helena is in charge of lunch, so that still makes it three teachers to eight plus students. We could really use your support against these upstart pups, you know," Hank murmured in his most sweetly compelling tone. He'd also backed her against the door of the cottage, leaning one hand on it, and smiling down at her.

"Touch, not tackle?"

"A . . . variant," Hank admitted. "Charles lays out the rules prior to the game and we give the students a chance to flex their abilities. Think of it as a Danger Room exercise with very little danger."

"All right," Lucy agreed, "Although I reserve the right to render first aid to either side, as needed."

"But of course," Hank nodded. Neither of them spoke for a moment, and finally Lucy reached for him, pulling Hank to her for another kiss. This one was slow and sensual; a sultry promise for the future, and it made Hank growl with gentle enthusiasm.

"You sound like a happy V8," Lucy teased, "All rumbly."

"I rather feel like one," came his reply. "But regrettably it's late, and tomorrow will be here far too early."

Lucy watched Hank make his way back up to the house, feeling an ache between her thighs even as she smiled.

*** *** ***

By late Tuesday, Helena felt like growling. The final preparations for Thanksgiving were falling into place, but it was tricky trying to co-ordinate help around classes, and to make matters worse, two of the industrial Rhoombas had given up the ghost, which meant she was going to have to drag out the vacuum and take on the downstairs later in the day.

It wasn't anything major, but the annoyance factor hovered at 'high' and she forced herself to sit at the bay window in the kitchen and re-evaluate the chore chart. As she sipped the last of her coffee and made corrections, Helena heard a faint tap against the glass and looked over to see a familiar face outside.

She blushed, and Logan arched an eyebrow at her, his sardonic smile tinged with affection; he motioned, and Helena opened the window, leaning out. "Hey there."

"We have a lunch date," Logan informed her. "Come on."

"What?" Helena blurted, trying not to smile. "In the middle of the day before the day before Thanksgiving?"

"Sorta my point," Logan replied tersely. "You'll be busy tomorrow and Thursday and Friday, and frankly, I can't hold off until Saturday to have you to myself for a while. I'm greedy that way."

He managed this with just enough gruffness to make Helena blush, and she looked over her shoulder before turning back to him. "Two hours. That's all I can spare."

"I'll take it," Logan nodded. "Get your coat; I've got the food."

Curious now, Helena left a note on the kitchen door—_Out to lunch, the pies are off-limits! (This means ALL of you)—_and collected her purse and jacket. She slipped out the side door, closing it neatly behind her, and turned to face Logan, who nodded. It wasn't quite cold enough to see one's breath, but the temperature had dropped, and Helena suspected snow would be falling by the first week of December.

Logan had on a sheepskin lined leather jacket; his concession to the chill. He gave her a nod and motioned with his head towards the truck. "Short drive okay with you?"

"Sure," Helena agreed, and walked next to him. She was conscious of so much around them; the crunch of the gravel under their feet; the scent of dead leaves on the breeze; the drift of the wispy clouds overhead in the thin sunshine.

Once in the truck, Logan relaxed a little, shoulders slumping. "Okay, so far so good. Wasn't sure I could talk you into this."

"I needed the break, and you're good to be with," Helena assured him, and lightly patted his denim-covered thigh.

"Helena," Logan murmured, shooting her a sidelong glance. "Just so you know it's not about . . . you know. Honest to God, I _do_ have a cooler back there."

"Good, I'm hungry. What did you get?" she asked, looking over her shoulder to the storage space behind the seats.

"You'll find out when we get there," Logan assured her.

'There' turned out to be Spuyten Dyvil Cove, just two miles south of the school. There was a boathouse here along the rocky beach where several rowboats and crab pots were stored, but Logan took the truck up to the right, along a dirt road to a gazebo. They parked, and Helena got out, carrying the cooler as Logan unlocked the structure before them and pushed the door open.

"I didn't even know this was here!" she murmured, looking around at the pale sheets covering the furniture. "Is it the school's?"

"All this is Xavier's land," Logan pointed out, pulling one of the weatherproofing panels off to reveal a lovely view of the river through the trees. "Keys for it are on the caretaker's ring. Did a little exploring and found it last year. I'm guessing the professor doesn't get up this way much himself, being in a chair and all."

Helena nodded. The gazebo was an octagon, with a brick base and built-in seats all around the lattice walls. She pulled a sheet off to reveal canvas upholstery with a nautical pattern of anchors on it. "It's gorgeous!"

"Has a heater too—" Logan pointed out, shifting to turn the dial on one of the pillars. A dusty smell rose up for a moment, followed by a tiny shift of temperature as the electric heater built in along the baseboards began to run. "Not a bad little spot. A bit frou-frou, but . . ."

Helena laughed. "I can't believe you just said 'frou-frou.'"

"Not willingly," Logan shot back, "but let's face it, this place fits. Let's eat."

The cooler held a selection of roast beef and ham sandwiches, a few bags of potato chips, some bottled water and beer. Helena settled in on one of cushions and passed a roast beef to Logan, who settled in next to her and took it gratefully.

They ate, and talked in little generalities, and Helena felt a wave of comfort wash through her. It was good to get away; good to talk to someone for a little while about topics that had nothing to do with mutants or students.

"See, the best part of a Forsyth novel is that he did the research," Logan murmured after a swallow of beer. "All his information on mercs was legitimate, for the time. Gotta hand him that."

"How many of his books have you read?" Helena asked, "And which one was best?"

"Read all of 'em. I liked Odessa File and Dogs of War best," Logan ruminated. "Cat Shannon was a great character in that last one."

"And Day of the Jackal?"

"Overrated," Logan shrugged. "I don't buy a top assassin hanging out in France for weeks and not catching on to that cheek-kissing thing."

Helena giggled, mentally trying to picture Logan doing that with Hank, or Charles and failing.

Logan looked over at her. "What?"

"Nothing," she fibbed, but the amusement in her eyes was enough to make him move closer along the seat.

"Right," Logan grumbled, unsure if she was laughing at him or not.

Helena leaned closer. "Fine. Just thinking of you doing that French cheek-kissing thing with Charles."

Logan's alarmed and slightly revolted look at this was enough to set her off again, and Helena dropped part of her sandwich as she burst into giggles again.

"Okay, that's just _wrong_. I've got all the respect in the world for the professor, but the most he's gettin' out of me is a pat on the back or maybe a handshake."

Helena snickered again. "Charles will never know what he's missing."

"Damn straight," Logan added, and that made her laugh harder. Somewhere in the middle of her giggles, he pulled her onto his lap and she straddled him easily.

They kissed. From the first touch of his mouth to hers, Logan felt them both shift from humor to hunger, but he kept the caresses light, and slow. Helena's weight across his hips felt good and he liked the smell of her hair.

She tossed her head and smiled down at him. "You look good, under me."

"Don't get used to it," Logan told her, but his tone was soft, and he arched an eyebrow at her. "You're not the only one who likes the view from the top."

"I can make it worth your while to be on the bottom," Helena promised, and kissed him again, mouth opening to his in a sultry, breath-stealing kiss. Logan growled, shifting a bit as his personal enthusiasm expanded.

"Helena," he murmured, moving to slip a hand experimentally under the hem of her coat. She gave an encouraging murmur and kissed him again, grinding softly in a slow rub along his lap.

It was clear that she wanted to take charge, and Logan was fine with that; a slightly pushy, warm-eyed Helena lap dancing on him made him hot pretty damned fast, even through several layers.

The gazebo was still cool, but Helena undid her coat and shirt, letting Logan push up her bra and nuzzle her breasts, and the scrape of his stubble tickled. Only a few shafts of sunlight came through the boarded up sides, but in the light of one, his eyes were warm as cognac, and she wriggled.

Carefully Helena reached down and cupped her hand along the heavy ridge of his jeans, palm caressing it. Logan grunted, hips moving forward to keep the contact, and that was enough encouragement for her. She shifted herself to his side and draped over his lap. Logan blinked, glancing down as she tugged his fly open.

"May I?" Helena asked, her voice husky. She freed his heavy cock and lightly stroked it, marveling at the flush of dark color and thick veins on it. Looking up for a moment, she watched Logan swallow hard.

"Ohyeah," he agreed thickly, voice ragged and low.

She gave an experimental lick along the thick rise of his prick; warm, musky and definitely male.

Deliciously Logan.

With a happy hum, Helena slid her mouth over the thick dark head of his cock. It had been a long time, but judging by the deep, pleasured groan that rumbled helplessly through the man as she did so, she figured she still had _some_ skill at this.

She wanted to tease and play, but Helena was too aroused because the power and permission to do this to Logan was blackly exciting. To make him breathe hard, his big hand along her shoulder as he groaned and rocked his hips was a sweet thrill; a naughty delight.

Helena loved having the most powerful man she'd ever known growling for mercy as she lapped and sucked him. She felt the sudden tension under her fingers and braced herself, knowing what was about to happen.

Logan pressed his shoulders back hard against the back of the gazebo cushions, fighting the urge to grab the back of Helena's pretty neck as he thrust into her wet mouth, sliding through her slick fingers. He hadn't been blown in ages, but this was damn near more than he could take; the perfect suction of her mouth, the light but teasing grip of her fingers all moving in sensual syncopation to drive him out of his tiny fucking mind.

And it was working. He growled and pleaded, his hips pistoned up, eager for more, and Logan found himself panting. Helena had him but good; stroking and sucking and now he was about to blow like a volcano. He tried to warn her, but all he could manage was a deep groan as the unstoppable surge of molten pleasure flared through his balls and cock.

Logan arched, lost in the lust of the moment, only dimly aware of Helena drinking him down. He fought hard against the flare of his claws, and almost succeeded; almost. When he slumped and sighed, Logan noted a single gash along the seam of one cushion along his thigh.

There were more important matters at hand though, and he pulled Helena up, bringing her against him to kiss her hard. Logan tasted himself on her lips and deep in her mouth; a fierce, happy possessiveness flooded him.

She smelled ripe and aroused; it was time to do something about that.

"Your turn," Logan purred.

Helena bit her lips, licking them off a bit. "Logan—"

"I bet you taste fine," he murmured, moving to lick the side of her neck. "Gonna let me find out?"

She wriggled again, her laugh low and excited; he loved the scent of her this way. Cupping her ass, he rolled her over onto the cushions next to him and stretched over her, pinning her lightly. "I'll be good, but I want a taste, Sweets."

Helena hesitated. She knew she could trust Logan, but she wasn't sure she could trust herself at this point. Her entire body ached for him, and the taste in her mouth had her trembling. Then Logan reached up and tenderly brushed a thumb over her lips.

"It's only the second date," he rumbled. "I know the rules."

That made her relax, and she shimmied under him, smiling. "Okay then. Can you hurry?"

That made Logan laugh and he reached down to undo the rivet on her jeans. Little by little he tugged them off, along with the pink bikini briefs, and gave a low groan when Helena's delicate tangle of curls came into view. "Ohhhhhyeahhh . . . ."

Helena dropped a protective hand over herself, blushing in the dim light of the gazebo, but Logan nudged it impatiently with his nose. "Move."

"I—"

"Want," he managed in a pre-occupied voice. "Please, damn it?"

Giggling nervously, Helena drew a breath and shifted her hand away; Logan breathed in and a feral smile curled across his face. He blew a soft puff across the tangle of her fur, and Helena quivered at the coolness as she tried to prop herself up on one elbow. "L-Logan . . ."

"Mmmmm--" he murmured. "Busy."

She wanted to say something, but at that moment he shifted his hands, thumbs lightly pulling the edges of her cleft open, and Helena moaned instead, feeling aroused, exposed and slightly fearful.

This wasn't something she'd ever thought would come to pass. It was one thing to occasionally fantasize about making love with Logan, and quite another to be flat on her back with his face between her bare thighs while the dust motes floated on the thin beams of sunlight making their way through the gazebo planking.

He bent closer, and in one gentle stroke, flicked his tongue from bottom to top along the slick petals of her exposed sex. Instantly she shuddered, the wild pleasure spiking through her so hard that her nipples ached. His tongue was searingly hot, and he licked again, settling in, bracing his shoulder under her thigh for better access.

"Goddd, I . . ." Helena gasped in a thin little whisper, not sure of anything now, dazed and trembling. Logan took a deep breath, and pressed his open mouth against her cleft in one long, probing kiss.

She shook, stomach tensing with each stroke as he sweetly devoured her, his tongue sliding along the seam of her sex, moving to swipe over the tender insides of her thighs before returning to toy with the tiny bud of her clitoris. Helena tried to breathe but it wasn't easy, not with her pulse hammering and every nerve in her body on fire. She wriggled, pushing herself against Logan's slick mouth, wanting more, wanting it right _now._

He seemed to sense her need, and focused his licking where she wanted it most; Helena felt the rushing heat begin to build in her body; the unstoppable rise of the inevitable. With one hand she reached for his head, fingers lacing into his hair as the full rush of orgasm rolled through her. Helena cried out his name, the syllables drenched in lust as she arched against Logan's mouth, taut and beautiful.

Logan panted a little, pressing his wet cheek against the inside of Helena's thigh. He was grinning, thrilled that Helena was even more delicious than he'd thought. There was sweetness, yes, but also a lovely tang of her own that had him hard again.

Not that he was going to do anything about it, regretfully. Moving gently to kiss his way along her hip, he took a detour to play with Helena's breasts before kissing her chin and lips. "You look good on the bottom, Babe."

Helena smiled up at him, eyes half-lidded in bliss. "You earned the top. _This_ time."


	12. Chapter 12

The man in the dark suit had graying hair and a calm demeanor. Lucy could smell his scent, which was a blend of suit wool and Old Spice. She could also tell that he'd had eggs for breakfast, along with coffee—two sugars, no cream—and that while he was a little wary at being here, he wasn't scared.

That was interesting, and she kept her gaze on him as he stood when she entered the study. Charles made the introductions.

"Doctor San Marcos, this is Special Agent Luke Ramsey from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He's here to talk to you about certain matters pertaining to your arrival here," came the calm statement.

She nodded, and took a seat in one of the club chairs after shaking hands briefly with the man. Special Agent Ramsey gave her a nod and sat in one of the other chairs, his manner genuinely relaxed. He sighed. "Okay, I'd like to know exactly why you left Mesa Medical, Doctor San Marcos."

"I got a better offer," Lucy told him mildly. It was true; Hank had pretty much outlined what she was doing right now.

Special Agent Ramsey gave a shrug. "All this after one dinner with Doctor McCoy?"

"He can be very persuasive," Lucy shot back, "and clearly there was a need here at the school for a qualified physician."

"Not arguing that," Special Agent Ramsey nodded. "I'm just a little surprised that you'd literally drop everything to take the job. Not many professionals relocate overnight. Seems . . . hasty."

"And exactly how would you *know* this?" Lucy replied, fighting to keep her tone level. "I'm a private citizen and I haven't broken any laws."

The agent nodded, his gaze slightly sharper. "Yes you are, and so far, no, you haven't broken any laws. But your actions on behalf of certain underage patients have been under surveillance for a while now."

"You've been tailing me."

"Not precisely. We've been tailing . . ." Special Agent Ramsey held out a glossy photograph. "This guy. And he's been tailing *you.*"

"What?" Lost, Lucy stared at the photo, which showed a thin, young man with nondescript features and a dour expression.

Agent Ramsey gave a reluctant smile. "Don't recognize him?"

"No," Lucy admitted.

"Yeah, I'm not surprised. He doesn't have a smell. No scent, no body odor at all. Now I know that your particular mutant gene has you primarily identifying people through scent. This guy—he's an empty page in that department. His name's Doby Minotros, but he goes by the name Blank."

"He's with the Brotherhood," Charles broke in softly to help clear some of the confusion, "And apparently has been on your trail for the last two years, Lucy."

"You mean . . . I've been watched by the Feds AND the bad guys?" She bit back a laugh. "Oh that's just *great!* I feel SO much better now!"

"You shouldn't," Special Agent Ramsey sighed. "The Brotherhood clearly knew about your ability AND where you were working. I wouldn't have put it past them to have tried to nab you *or* some of your patients in that time."

"So what were YOU doing watching me?" Lucy demanded restlessly. "And what were you watching my watcher for?"

Special Agent Ramsey drew in a deep breath, and shot a look at Charles. Receiving a nod, he turned to Lucy and let the breath out. "Hoo-boy, this is going to get complicated, but let me see if I can lay it out in simplest terms."

"Please do," Lucy muttered dryly, crossing her arms.

Special Agent Ramsey rose up and began to pace. "Okay. The Bureau has always been mandated to keep an eye on anyone who might attempt to overthrow the government—that's one of our primary directives, and The Brotherhood of Mutants certainly qualifies. We've had several agents assigned to coordinate the incoming data on the Brotherhood, and among them were Chuck Kominsky and Barry Soto."

He passed her two more photographs; Lucy squinted at them for a moment. "Licorice and Camels," she murmured in recognition.

"Yeah. For the record. Soto was the candy eater, and Kominsky smoked. Anyway, those two were assigned to tail Minotros, who'd been identified as a Brotherhood member. And after a while they noted that Minotros was tailing YOU."

Lucy blinked.

Special Agent Ramsey went on. "Naturally this was an interesting development and they reported both his doings, and eventually yours as well. We figured out that Minotros was spying on you, but didn't make the connection to your patients until we caught him trying to talk to one of them."

"What?"

"Yeah, I guess he was trying to recruit them, or at the very least, figure out where they were going. Hell, he might have already known. I'm sure Erik Lensherr could guess you were sending them to the professor here—not many options for mutants."

"Shit," Lucy muttered, her complexion going pale. Special Agent Ramsey shook his head. "It's okay. Whatever else Minotros was, a recruiter he wasn't. Not one kid ever gave him the time of day as far as we know, and he never caught on that he was being followed himself. Not a genius level guy by any means. What we DO know, though, is that once he spotted you with Doctor McCoy, he freaked, big time."

"Is that the precise, technical description of his reaction?" Lucy snapped, trying not to laugh through her shock.

Ramsey looked like he wanted to chuckle himself and forced himself not to. "Actually it is. Soto's comment at the time was and I quote—'Blank's completely spazzing out,'—end quote. It's safe to assume that Minotros been told to report back to the Brotherhood if you ever met with any of the X-Men."

"And after that?"

His expression changed.

"After that, things got ugly. You and Doctor McCoy were tailed as far as the hotel, but before Soto and Kominsky could get up to you, they ran into . . . something. Soto ended up dead, in a dumpster, and Kominsky barely got away. We have him in a long-term care facility right now, since he doesn't have any arms or ears left. We think the two of them were taken out by more dangerous members of the Brotherhood."

"Oh God," Lucy gulped. "I'm so sorry!"

"Not your fault," Ramsey sighed. "And yeah, we all are. Kominsky was—is—a good agent."

"Why . . . ." Lucy stopped and started again, "Why are you telling us all this?"

Ramsey looked at her mildly. "Because while I'm federal agent, I'm a mutant as well."

She stared at him blankly; he gave a shrug. "Yeah. I can alter people's body temperature. Handy during interrogations. I just wanted to point out that some issues go beyond national politics, Doctor San Marcos. Erik Lensherr isn't trying to overthrow the US government--he's out to take over the entire planet."

"You have a very powerful gift, Lucy," Charles spoke up after a somber moment. "Your ability to manipulate people would be very useful to Erik, particularly against the human population. He's clever enough to know that force isn't the only tool to move the masses."

Ramsey nodded. "Precisely. He wants mutants with all sorts of exploitable talents, and believe me, yours would be a coup for him."

"I'm not *about* to work for Magneto," Lucy growled.

"Not now. But back in New Mexico, you were a loner—by preference, according to Soto and Kominsky—and if he'd grabbed you, done some torture and mind-control--" Ramsey shrugged. "You'd kept yourself pretty isolated, Doctor; it might have been a long time before you were missed by anyone."

She wanted to argue, but shivered instead, realizing for the first time that Ramsey was right. She *had* cut herself off from people and in the course of trying to avoid detection, had left herself much more vulnerable in the process.

"So . . . it's a good thing you took the job offer," Ramsey murmured, "because at least now you're a lot safer than you were. I don't know if Lensherr will try again, but if he's been watching you for years, he may."

"And that's it?" Lucy found her voice. "Just, 'good thing I took the job offer?'"

"Doctor, look where you are," Ramsey pointed out calmly. "This is the best sanctuary for a mutant in the entire country. You've been sending kids here yourself for years."

"And now I'm putting them in danger!"

"I don't think so," Charles broke in firmly. "The school is well-protected, and so are you, my dear. You are among friends, and you are needed here."

His calm tone took most of the anxiety out of her, and Lucy breathed in his serene scent, relaxing a bit. Ramsey nodded himself and cocked his head.

"Officially, we're closing the case. We have you on record as an investigative lead that didn't pan out; that's to cover our butts if this case ever gets an official review. I've been working to keep cases involving mutants under my own jurisdiction, and I'd like to work out a liaison with Doctor McCoy at some point in the future, but that's going to have to go through official channels and might take some time. Until then," Ramsey shrugged, "it's all off the books."

After the agent had left, Lucy sat with Charles a moment longer, feeling slightly overwhelmed. He rolled himself out from around his desk, and brought his chair to a halt in front of her, his smile as gentle as ever. She looked up.

"I believe," Charles told her softly. "It's time for my physical, Doctor. Come—the best cure for uncertainty is work, is it not?"

Lucy smiled.

*** *** ***

Hank wished Aggie would stop staring at him, particularly with her smug little smile. He ignored it a few moments longer, then turned to look over the top of his reading glasses at her. "Agatha," came his warning. "You are making me exceedingly uncomfortable."

"Sorry, it's just you look . . . relaxed. I'm not used to seeing you all you know . . . mellow," she pointed out. "Usually you're much more bunched up, especially over forms." She sauntered over and pretended to re-arrange the pencils in his cup. "Anything interesting happen this weekend?"

Hank sighed inwardly. He knew it would be impossible to keep his developing relationship with Lucy hidden from Agatha, but it was still too new; too uncertain to be shared.

"Doctor San Marcos gave me a physical," he offered, hoping that would satisfy Aggie's curiosity.

His secretary smirked. "Oh is *that* what you kids call it nowadays?"

Hank pushed up his sleeve to show her the bandage at the furry crook of his elbow. "Yes, it was oodles of fun to be jabbed and told to watch my cholesterol."

"Oodles?" Agatha questioned, ignoring the bandage. "Hey, you didn't get a prostate exam, did you?"

"Agatha!" Hank glared at her. "Your prurient curiosity is unbecoming."

She wasn't at all fazed by his outburst, and smiled again. "Okay, I'll stop. But you look happy, Hank, and that makes *me* happy."

He sighed noisily; Aggie had an uncanny way of saying just the right thing to coax matters out of him. "Yes, yes, I *am* happy. I'm just not ready to discuss the issue, all right?"

"Gotcha," she nodded. "Oh, your mom called; wants to know if you'd like your Christmas stuff sent here, or to Xavier's."

"Xavier's," Hank replied, and frowned. "Wait, Christmas isn't for another five weeks, right?"

"Shopping season opens this weekend, Blue," Agatha cheerily reminded him. "It's never too late to look into Chocolate of the Month Club, you know."

"I'm not even sure she likes chocolate," Hank murmured, considering.

"*All* women like chocolate," Aggie reassured him. "It's genetic; you should know that. The gene's right next to the one that makes us boss men around."

"Egad, you're right. Just on the other side of the one for terminal nosiness," he teased.

"Keep it up and you're getting coal for Christmas," Aggie warned. "Just remember who keeps your calendar running smoothly, buster."

"I consider myself warned," Hank nodded, appreciatively aware of his secretary's skills. "Nevertheless, let us get back to work and perhaps we can leave by Wednesday noon to our respective holidays. I take it you and Reuben will be celebrating together?"

"Yep. Going to his brother Raoul's place in Silver Spring. Should be fun," Agatha murmured happily. Hank was pleased; Aggie and Judge Reuben Valencia had been dating for nearly three years now, both of them cute as buttons together, though Hank was careful not to say so aloud.

"Good," he murmured, "I'm glad. Let us hope it doesn't snow."

"Knock wood," Aggie agreed. "Going out to the school for Thanksgiving?"

"Of course," Hank replied. "I need to represent the faculty during the annual football game."

"Will Doc Lucy be playing?" Aggie asked curiously.

"Yes," Hank answered, trying hard to ignore the smirk on his secretary's face.

"Woo! Have fun in the huddle," came her saucy reply before she moved off, leaving her boss to glare at her retreating back.

*** *** ***

The UPS truck arrived on late Wednesday; holiday traffic had delayed the delivery, but Lucy was glad to see several suitcases unloaded, along with her loom and pillows. A handful of students helped bring everything down to the cottage and she unpacked, wondering which of her grandfather's girlfriends had done the work. Whoever it had been did a nice job; the shoes, lingerie, makeup and clothes were all exactly the ones that Lucy needed, and she felt better seeing her things in familiar places.

It was good to have her own pillows as well; they held the scent of the desert and Lucy breathed it in, feeling a quick pang of tears for her loss. She hadn't travelled much away from the mesas and arroyos of her home state, and was still trying to make peace with the dark forest outside.

She set the pillows down, and looked to the loom, wondering if she should scrap the weaving on it altogether and start anew. The Two Hills blanket was barely a fourth finished, and Lucy wasn't sure if it was taboo or not to work on it here without a Blessing. Then she shook her head, grinning at her convoluted nature.

Lucy frowned abruptly, wondering if Hank would tease her for such a thing.

Staring at her loom, she almost didn't hear the knock at the door; starting, Lucy moved to peek out the spy hole. Blue eyes looked back at her, and she smiled, unlocking the door. Hank stood there, hands behind his back but she could smell the roses he was hiding and cocked her head at him.

"I'm sacramental, Hank—can you deal with that?"

Whatever he'd been expecting her to say, that wasn't it, and for a moment Hank looked nonplussed. "Er, excuse me?"

"Sacramental," she repeated firmly. "Not about everything, but there are a few things I practice and believe and they're probably not going to change, like Blessings and purification rites. You have to tell me if it's going to be a problem. Oh, and thank you for the roses."

"You're welcome, dear heart, and no, I don't think anything you do that's a part of your cultural heritage will be an issue for me," Hank assured her, handing over the cone of roses. "Short of harming yourself that is. I'm not sure I could stand by and let you do that."

"Occasionally fasting?" she eyed him sternly.

Hank frowned. "For how long?"

"Four days is the usual timeframe," Lucy told him, studying the roses, "and before you object, keep in mind I do that for Lent, too. Not for the whole forty days, just one day a week in Lent. Oh these are gorgeous!"

"I'm glad you like them," Hank murmured, and sighed. "As for fasting, I won't be happy about it, but I'll accept your reasons for doing so as long as it's not detrimental to your health. May I ask what brought all this to mind?"

Lucy waved him in and went to the tiny kitchen, searching for a vase. "At the risk of sounding cliché, we come from two very different backgrounds, Hank my dear. Personalities aside, we've got different expectations and belief systems and experiences and I just want to make sure the gulf isn't too wide to bridge."

She glanced over at him; he had picked up one of her pillows and had his face buried in it; guiltily he looked up. "May I have this?"

"Only if you give me one of yours," Lucy sighed. "Hank--"

"Sorry, sorry," he sighed, reluctantly setting the pillow down. "I know you're making very valid observations, but the very scent of you is distracting me somewhat from more cerebral matters."

Lucy blinked, and blushed. She went over to him and slipped her arms around his ribs, hugging Hank tightly. "Sorry—that really wasn't a good 'hello' was it? Being interrogated at the front door like that."

Hank hugged her back, sighing happily. "Any time I can see you is a good 'hello,' my sweet," came his soft reply. "I see some of your belongings have arrived."

"Yeah," Lucy agreed. "The essentials. I guess all of this puts up a big scent marker, huh?"

"A lovely one," Hank assured her, "rising up fast within my favorites."

Lucy snorted. "You haven't breathed me in when I'm sweaty and gross, or when it's that particular time of the month."

"Mere variations on a delectable theme." Hank felt himself responding to Lucy's warmth and proximity.

"Good. You're going to run into both pretty soon," Lucy replied. "Pardon my bluntness, but I doubt I could hide either from you."

Hank lifted her chin and firmly, sweetly kissed her before smiling down into her face. "Nor should you. I'm cognizant of your enthralling femininity, Lucy dearest."

Whatever Lucy was about to reply was lost as the sound of running feet reached them, moving along the path to the cottage. Lucy let go of Hank and moved to the door, opening it just as Skeeter skittered against the doorframe, out of breath.

"Rogue . . . hit . . . her head . . ." he puffed, "Bleeding . . ."


	13. Chapter 13

Lucy began to move but Hank was faster; scooping her up he pinned her against him in the curve of one arm and bounded towards the mansion. Lucy clung to him trying not to yelp as the landscape passed by under them very quickly. He barreled through the side door and turned them towards the infirmary; already Bobby and Charles had Rogue laid out on one of the tables, both of them using gauze to press at a gash along her temple.

"What happened?" Lucy demanded breathlessly, pulling away from Hank and reaching for the latex glove dispenser. She took over from Bobby, pulling up the gauze to examine the wound.

"It was stupid accident," Rogue sighed, looking slightly mournful. "Slipped in my socks along the floor and hit my head on the lowboy in the hall. I didn't _know_ it was that polished."

"You'll live. I think we're going to need two stitches though, to be on the safe side," Lucy told her patient calmly. "Gentlemen, thank you—Hank, will you tell Skeeter he did a good job?"

It didn't take Lucy long to clean and stitch up the wound; she told Rogue to report any dizziness and gave her some Ibuprofen, then sent her to rest out in the rec room.

Hank was waiting for her when she was done; Lucy looked up at him with wide eyes. "That was amazing."

"Speed seemed vital," Hank told her, slightly uncomfortable. "I should have asked you, or warned you--"

"It was great," Lucy told him with a grin. "I loved it."

He shot her a disbelieving look, and she blushed a bit, hands deep in the pockets of her lab coat. "You cannot be serious. I . . . manhandled you."

"All for the greater good," Lucy winked at him. "I'm hoping the next time it's for more selfish reasons."

Hank looked at her a moment longer, then stepped forward and swept her up, an arm behind her back and the other under her knees. "I have *no* idea what you're talking about," he murmured with flirtatious innocence into her startled face. "Perhaps I'd better carry you back to your cottage and you can explain it to me in depth."

When they reached the dark doorway of the cottage, Lucy twisted, slipping her arms up and around Hank's thick neck, kissing him recklessly. He shifted her in his arms, kissing Lucy back with fervent intensity of his own, tasting heat and sugar and desire in her warm mouth.

He ached. Not just in a physical sense, although that was the strongest sensation at the moment, but elsewhere, in the hidden recesses of his heart. This woman, so kind and intense and good appealed to him in so many ways beyond just the physical, but showing that wasn't as easy as Hank had hoped.

Words had always been his forte, but somehow finding the right ones for Lucy . . .

And then she ground her hips against him, and Hank abruptly stopped thinking, stopped analyzing and grabbed her ass.

Lucy growled at him; growled! "About _time!"_

Hank laughed and let go of one luscious cheek long enough to manage the doorknob. "Inside."

Lucy let him carry her in, seemingly having no interest in being set down, and Hank didn't mind, since holding her was no problem at all. She continued to kiss his face, exploring the planes of his cheeks and chin, nipping his nose and jaw while making happy sounds.

Hank purred. "I could get used to this degree of affection."

"Sofa," Lucy murmured, her tone suddenly shy. "I didn't mean to throw myself at you, but I've missed you Hank."

"Throw away; I've missed you as well," he confessed in a rumbling voice. He turned and dropped himself on the sofa; it creaked but held, and Lucy went back to kissing him as she draped herself over Hank's chest.

He kissed back, breathing in the scent of her, letting his hands slide in happy exploration along the contours of her spine and behind. Lucy's weight on him felt wonderful; a perfect pressure of sensual woman.

Lucy reached up, playing with one of his ears, tracing her tongue along the point of it, and the action brought her chest up to his face. Hank had *no* objections to that at all and experimentally slid a big palm up to cup one, savoring the firm round weight of it.

"Big, I know; it's a genetic thing," Lucy whispered in his ear.

"These aren't 'things,'" he protested with a delighted groan. "They're big, beautiful breasts; magnificent mammaries and I adore them!" Hank told her, reiterating his point by rubbing his face against her chest. "Nummmy."

That made Lucy squirm and laugh at the same time. "Nummy?"

But whatever Hank said in reply was lost in the warm depths of her cleavage, which threatened to tumble out of the top of her sweater. The feel of his tongue, raspy and hot along the cleft there made Lucy groan loudly.

She wriggled, and that made Hank groan in return; they settled in against each other, not speaking now, but kissing, touching, and communicating without words. Lucy breathed in the rising change in Hank's scent; that spike in musky, not-to-be-denied testosterone that made her heady.

It was fairly easy to unbutton his shirt, and fun to lightly rake her fingers through the fur of his chest. She'd touched it before, when checking his heart, but this wonderfully different, this freedom to tickle and explore. Hank clearly liked it as well since she could feel the low rumble of his response under her fingers. Lucy lightly pinched one rivet-like nipple and was rewarded when Hank groaned.

"Like that?"

"A bit . . . self-evident," Hank gasped. "Ohyeahhh."

On a whim, Lucy dropped her mouth onto it, nipping, and Hank bucked his hips against her, eyes half-closed in pleasure. He felt feverish with desire; light-headed and urgent.

Hank had always prided himself on his self-control, but that was eroding quickly as Lucy moved from one nipple to the other, her mischievous nips sending hot jolts of arousal surging through him. He reached for her, determined in his lustful haze to give as much pleasure as he was receiving.

Lucy helped him undo her sweater, her hair falling loose at the same time. The underwire she wore was lacy and not quite up to the job, so Hank thoughtfully unhooked it for her.

Freed, her chest was right where he wanted it; in his face.

"Hank, I have to tell you something," Lucy murmured, stroking his hair, her bracelets jingling as he licked his way around the circumference of one breast and then the other.

"Mmmmm?" He responded softly, far too busy with the silky bounty nearly overflowing his hands. These were precisely the sort of breasts he'd dreamed of playing with since puberty, which meant he had a good twenty-eight years to make up for.

"I'm sometimes . . . loud," Lucy confessed. Hank reluctantly paused his pawing and gave a sigh. He reached up, and gently took her glasses off, setting them on the coffee table out of harm's way.

"We _are_ well away from the mansion, my love, so I doubt noise will be a factor. However," he groaned, shifting under her, "we are also fast approaching a point of critical decision and I need to know now if I should stop while I can, because later it will be much more . . . difficult."

"Oh for God's sake, take your pants off, Hank!"

Lucy thought the look on his face was priceless; she leaned over to kiss him once more, her fingers moving down between their bodies to undo his fly. It took some fumbling, but after a moment she got her first good look at him, and drew in a breath as fresh heat flooded through her.

She knew Hank would be proportioned to his physical size of course; Lucy suspected that from his basic anatomy, but seeing his evidence surpass her hypothesis made her whimper in the back of her throat. Hank froze for a moment at her reaction, but Lucy smiled as she stretched out on him once more and the skin to fur contact soothed them both.

"I'm on the Pill," she told him breathlessly as she wiggled out of her slacks and underwear. "And I'm fairly sure I'm clean since I haven't been intimate in about . . ." Lucy thought back a moment, "Oh, about three years."

"An utter crime for a woman so beautiful," Hank purred, taking a moment to lightly lick her ear. "You've seen my blood work, and it's been a while for me as well, alas."

Lucy kissed him, letting her tongue play with his for a long moment and then laughed softly against his mouth. "I want you in me, Hank. I _need_ you in me."

He growled at that, a deep masculine rumble rising from the depths of his chest and his hands slid down her ribs to catch her waist. "Dear God, the need is so very mutual, my love," Hank told her tenderly, and he lifted Lucy with gentleness. She straddled his hips—awkwardly since there wasn't much room on the sofa—and slid her fingers around his turgid shaft.

It was hot and heavily veined; Lucy carefully angled him and sank down, giving a deep gasp of pleasure, bracelets jingling again.

Under her Hank grunted, "STARsngartahhhhhhhhh------"

They moved together, and after a few bounces found a fast mutual rhythm that made the sofa creak. Lucy braced her hands on Hank's chest and moved, rocking herself against his thrusts. A few breathless moments later, they looked down together; watching their bodies moving in hot urgency, and the sight of his indigo cock, slick and thickly driving up into her rosy cleft was nearly overwhelming for both of them.

Lucy scrabbled one hand, grabbing a thick lock of her hair. She drew across her mouth, biting it hard. Hank blinked, and then as the hot ripple of her orgasm clenched him, he understood. Lucy cried out joyously, the sound muffled by her mouthful of dark hair.

Hank couldn't hold back. The heat, the pressure, the stunningly beautiful sight of Lucy--wild mane flying, bracelets chiming out, chest bouncing—was too much for whatever vestigial control he had left. He growled, thrusting hard as his own shuddering climax surged through him, the pleasure exquisite nearly to the point of pain.

They collapsed together; spent, damp, sticky and quiet.

*** *** ***

Just after midnight and Logan looked up from rooting around in the back of the refrigerator for the coldest beer in time to see Hank lumber in. He took a deep sniff, and a sardonic grin crossed his face, but Hank shot him a quelling look.

"Is there anything left over from dinner that Helena won't miss?" Hank asked quietly.

Logan thought a moment, and gestured to one of the glass shelves. "Tuna casserole with peas. And some brownies, if the kids haven't cleaned 'em out."

Nodding, Hank reached into one of the shelves for a plastic Tupperware tub, and found one of the larger ones. Logan snagged a beer and watched him, noting everything. Hank tried to ignore the scrutiny, but Logan handed him another beer. "You look like you could use one."

"Good call," Hank finally managed a brief grin, and opened it. He drank it down in five heavy gulps, burping softly afterwards and crushing the can in one big paw. Logan took his time with his own can.

"So, heading back to play doctor for the rest of the night?" Logan asked, striving for innocence and failing badly.

Hank resumed packing dinner into the Tupperware. "Logan, I assure you, a single insult in regard to the lady, and I will make it a point of honor to put that healing factor of yours through an _extreme_ stress test."

"Damn, a full-fledged, bonafide threat. And they say chivalry is dead," came the dry reply as Logan shook his head, amused.

Hank shot him a sidelong glance. "She means a great deal to me."

"I can tell," Logan nodded. "You packed napkins, fer cryin' out loud."

"What?" confused Hank looked down. "I always pack napkins. Eating neatly is a civilized activity."

"They're not for you; they're for her," Logan pointed out. "And as far as I'm concerned, what you and the doc do is your own damned business. Congrats, if that's what's in order. All I'm sayin' is you might want to shower before you two slink your way outta the cottage tomorrow, because even for people without good noses, it's pretty damned clear what you've been up to."

"Noted," Hank sighed, his anger fading. "I'd prefer if you kept this development to yourself until such time as Lucy and I discuss matters."

"You got it," Logan nodded, and finished his beer before adding, "Try and get to the Thanksgiving dinner on time, though—I can't cover for you two on that one."

Lucy was still sleeping when Hank let himself back into the cottage. She lay sprawled on the sofa, wavy hair in thick disarray, face buried down against one of the cushions. Hank set the Tupperware down and looked over at her, feeling a resurgence of lust at the sight of her bare ass, round and sweet in the dim light.

He moved closer, intending to pick her up, but some impish impulse goaded him, and lightly, he bent and nipped her ass, barely pressing his fangs against the rounded curve of the nearest cheek. Lucy flinched, and woke up. "Hank!"

"I thought it was a kiss to the lips that woke the princess . . . unless I've been reading the wrong fairy tales," Hank told her cheerfully. "I like this version much more."

"My backside is not to be the recipient of bites, nips, or chews of any sort," Lucy announced, trying to sit up and regain some dignity. This was difficult with Hank nosing his way up along her naked back, his furry chin tickling her. He arrived at the tender join of shoulder and neck, nestling his face into it and purring.

"I have done my bit as hunter-gatherer and brought sustenance back to the home cave," Hank announced. "As such, I should be rewarded for my efforts. I suggest sex as the best reinforcement of such desired behaviors."

"And _I_ charge that your efforts were as much on behalf of your _own_ appetites, oh learned one, and I'll give you half an hour to cut out all that fondling of me that you're doing."

"Thirty minutes, hmmm? I accept your challenge," Hank told her, and scooped her up. Lucy squawked, but he ignored that and carried her into the tiny bedroom, setting her gently on the bedspread there. She grabbed a pillow and hugged it, covering herself somewhat as Hank sat on the edge of the bed.

"Hank," Lucy began, her voice soft. "If you'd rather eat—"

"Are you hungry, dear heart?" he asked solicitously as he slipped out of the rest of his clothes. "Our carnality can wait until your appetite is satiated."

"I'm fine," Lucy assured him, reaching out a hand to brush her hair out of her eyes. "I just wondered if _you_ were hungry."

"I could manage some comestibles in a while," Hank told her. "For the moment, however, there are other more compelling drives."

She gave a slow nod. "Compelling; yes, that's probably the best adjective."

"Apropos," he murmured, smiling back at her. "May I study you?"

Lucy blinked at him, and Hank clarified. "Examine you, peruse your form, and investigate all the lovely charms that compose your features."

"I'm a naked woman; I'm sure you've seen them before," Lucy protested faintly. "Probably better versions at that."

"Let me understand this correctly: you're in bed with a blue-furred mutant and you're worried about the way _you_ look?" Hank teased, leaning towards her and latching onto the pillow. "And in point of fact, I have always adored looking at you; naked is sort of the supreme treat to the process."

He tugged, and Lucy reluctantly let go, her hands shifting to cover herself as Hank tossed the cushion over his shoulder. "Ohhhmy."

"Hank--" Lucy warned, noting a definite gleam of masculine intensity in his eyes, "I'm nothing special."

"How I insist on differing with you," Hank shot back, his voice deeper now as he blinked. "Such beauty; such bounty in sweet display; a glorious feast for the very hunger barely sated only a short while ago."

Lucy arched an eyebrow at him. "Do you always get poetic when you're horny?"

"Not prior to this moment," Hank confessed, "The sight of you is making my loins lyrical."

Lucy laughed. He reached out and gently urged her to stretch out; she did so slowly, relaxing by inches. Hank lay next to her, and ran his hand along her stomach, stroking it gently.

"You can look," she agreed slowly. "As long as I get to do the same with you. Agreed?"

"A reasonable compromise," Hank murmured, rising up on one elbow. "I believe I have about twenty-seven minutes left."

Lucy smirked. "Since I don't seem to have a watch on me, I'll take your word for it."

He leaned over her, taking in a deep, happy breath. "Apricot and . . . . Twinkies. You're doing that on purpose."

Lucy said nothing, but her smile was brilliant, and Hank kissed her with a lingering nibble of her lips before moving down her form. He deliberately brushed his fur against her, noting her happy reactions keenly. Hank dropped a light kiss on each breast in a cheerful promise to return to those bouncy delights, and let his nose rub along Lucy's ribcage from side to side.

There was a long pale gouge of a scar here against her tan skin, just under the last rib on the left side. As he lightly kissed it, Lucy spoke up. "Car accident."

A faint trace of bitterness colored her scent, and Hank blinked, looking up. "Your father."

" . . . Yeah," she sighed. Hank pressed a last gentle kiss to it, and shifted away, giving her time to relax. When her hands slid through his hair, raking it gently, he knew she felt better.

Carefully, Hank snuffled down to her navel, rubbing his chin on the darling dimple there. The thrust of his tongue into it made Lucy squeak. "Hank!"

"It is ever the nature of a scientist to follow where curiosity leads," he justified with a grin, adding, "Lint-free and tasty."

"You're having waaay too much fun," she grumbled lightly.

Hank slid his big hands around her hips, cupping them easily. He breathed in, and rubbed one furry cheek along the rounded curve of her belly, brushing it to feel the warmth against his face.

Concentrating, Hank let his senses drink Lucy in as he breathed. Her scent, feminine and alluring, mingled with his own heavier essence. The velvety texture of her abdomen, and the padding and muscle under it captivated him as did the lovely light caramel color of her skin and the tight little ebony curls of her mound, fluffy in the light of the bedroom lamp.

"More beautiful than my imaginings," he murmured, and then realized what he had just confessed aloud. Embarrassed, Hank looked to see Lucy staring back at him, her mouth open in surprise.

"You imagined . . ." she began, weakly, since he was now lightly toying with the tiny curls, blowing on them.

"Guilty," came Hank's low rumble. "I strive to be a gentleman, but hormones trump manners, particularly after dark."

Lucy slid one hand down to cover herself, but Hank delicately and firmly peeled it away, kissing her palm as he did so. "I think not, my sweet—I still have twenty-three minutes left, and so much yet to savor."

"But I'm all . . ." Lucy began to protest, and then stopped; Hank laughed, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.

"Fuzzy? Damp? Perfumed with the heady tincture of our previous lovemaking?"

"All of the above," Lucy sighed. "And I'm not used to anyone . . . looking."

"But you are so beautiful," Hank assured her with grave sincerity. "A delight of form and function; a glorious goddess of enticing femininity."

"Hank, please stop sound like a thesaurus; I'm nervous as it is."

"Fine. In a nutshell, you're turning me on, big time," he sighed, blissfully nuzzling along the wet seam of her sex. "Mmmmmm, dessert before dinner."

He licked along the edges of her curls, moving deliberately to let his tongue slide along her closed thighs, and was rewarded by the tremble in them as he let his hot breath blow over wetted skin.

Lucy wriggled. "You're _teasing_ me . . ."

With care, Hank managed make her open her thighs and bend her knees; the view improved vastly, he thought, dazed, as the dark and graceful curls parted to reveal the slick, rosy folds, like an exotic orchid opening before him.

"Aspirat primo Fortuna labori . . ." Hank purred, and bent to plant a kiss.

He felt her tense; sensed how close to the edge she was and a rush of tenderness washed through him. Hank softened his mouth and drew the flat of his tongue across the pulsing bud, giving in to her need instead of drawing the tease out. That would be for another time, he decided, when Lucy wasn't as taut as a drawn bow.

It didn't take long.

She bucked under him, her low, urgent cries making him throb in immediate response, but Hank ignored the demands of his body and kept his focus on Lucy. Gradually her fingers loosened from his fur, and she relaxed, slumping damply on the bedspread.

Hank kissed his way back up along one warm thigh and up the ridge of her hipbone, going lightly over Lucy's ribs until his mouth was against her collarbone. "And I still have eight minutes left," came his gentle gloat before he shifted to nuzzle her breasts.

Lucy didn't open her eyes, but her scent held a new lushness to it, and Hank realized it held a hint of . . . himself.

His own scent now fused with hers; sage and ferns in a heady bouquet.

"Thank you," she murmured throatily. "I feel *sooo* fabulous---"

"I couldn't agree more," Hank told her, cupping one of her breasts and squeezing lightly.

"Do you want me?" Lucy asked. "Because I feel like being very nice to you right now." She opened her eyes lazily, and winked at him. "_Very _nice."

Hank gave a happy growl. "Want implies choice and in this, there _is _none. I _need_ you, Lucy darling."

Their lovemaking was slower this time although no less intense, and Hank covered her body with his, moving gently as they kissed and murmured endearments not meant for anyone else to hear.

He held out for a while, but the minute Lucy tightened her legs around him and whispered, "Deeper, please, I want your cock in me deeper, Hank!" he grunted, unable to stop the rush of hot, furious lust that heaved through his damp frame. He drove into her hard, face pressed against her shoulder, senses overwhelmed for the moment.

Hank knew he should shift; he wasn't light, and Lucy probably needed to breathe, but it took a while for his body to grudgingly move from the warm haven of hers. Lucy didn't help by clinging sleepily to him. "Hey! You're not leaving me to sleep on the wet spot all by myself, mi amor."

"No greater love hath a man," he pretended to grumble, pulling her over him and settling down on the damp bedspread. "And that's not all _my_ creation. I want that on the record, Lucylove."

"Noted," came her soft murmur. "A little rest, and then we can have . . . dinner . . ."

They fell asleep.


	14. Chapter 14

The aromas drifting from the kitchen were driving nearly everyone crazy. Kitty, Skeeter and Rogue were assigned to monitor the doorways and keep anyone else from wandering in and getting in the way as Helena directed the traffic inside.

She and Bobby were cheerfully pulling turkeys out of the ovens and setting them out to cool a bit as Taymor, Michi and Lauralee each worked at a side dish station and Oliver put the last touches on the relish trays. The scents of roast turkey, mashed potatoes, corn, peas, gravy and pie mingled in the air and everyone seemed to be chattering cheerfully.

"We need more celery," Oliver announced.

Michi finished dabbing butter on the baby peas and came to help him. Bobby checked on the tray of extra drumsticks and gave a thumbs up to Helena, who was whisking cornstarch into the vat of gravy. "They're just about ready . . . how many should we set out?"

"Eight," Helena murmured. "Those with the six off the turkeys should be enough for anyone who wants one. Taymor, how are the potatoes?"

"Really hot," the boy groused, waving burned fingers. "All three of the bowls are full though."

"Good, go wash your hands, sweetie and let our door people start pouring drinks at the table. And thank you," Helena added with a smile. "I know your potatoes are going to be fantastic."

Bobby quickly laid out the drumsticks in an artistic circle on one of the china platters, adding a few bits of parsley for garnish, and then grinned at Helena. "I know, I know--nobody will ever eat the green stuff, but it looks nice."

"Presentation," Helena smirked. "Good to go in the next ten minutes?" She gave the gravy a last, quick stir.

"We're good," Bobby assured her.

The dining room of the school had been cleaned and set up with the long table in the center. The formal linen tablecloth and bone china were heirlooms from the Xavier family, but the crystal candleholders came from Storm, and Helena had made the centerpiece of Indian corn, small pumpkins and dried leaves. Now that the doors were open, people were wandering in and finding their seats as Rogue and Kitty filled glasses with water, milk, or sparkling cider.

Charles rolled in and took his place at the head of the table, breathing in deeply. "I think we have much to be thankful for today," he announced, and people around him nodded or made soft sounds of agreement as they began to sit down. Lucy came in, quiet and uncertain; Oliver guided her by hand to a seat along the middle of the table and helped her sit.

"I made the olives and pickles plates," he told her earnestly. "Are you going to have some?"

"Yes," she assured Oliver with a nod. "I will."

Gradually everyone came to the table, filling it as the first of the food began the relay from the kitchen. By the time Helena and Bobby made it out, flushed and smiling, everyone was seated.

Even Logan, who had managed to find a clean flannel shirt.

Storm sat at the foot of the table, and when everyone fell silent, Charles murmured a soft blessing, his strong voice carrying the words through the room.

"Brethren, we who are gathered here today are grateful for the many blessings we share among us, and hope to use this bounty of food and friendship to nourish our hopes, dreams and destinies. Amen."

There was a soft murmur, and then Logan raised his glass, face somber. Everyone looked at him; he sighed. "To the absent."

Wordlessly everyone picked up their glasses as well, raising them in a silent and acknowledging toast.

After that, the eating began in earnest, and all around the table came the happy chatter of requests and compliments and general sounds of gustatory approval. Dishes were passed around, along with baskets of rolls and various condiments. Lucy helped herself to what appealed and ate heartily, going pink whenever she looked across the table and caught Hank's warm gaze on her.

Afterwards, she helped with the dishes, and then made her way out to the garden, sighing contentedly. Most of the students were napping, gaming or watching football on television; the atmosphere of the entire school was replete with sense of satisfaction.

It was colder now, as the sun slipped down behind the tall trees, and Lucy could see her breath in a pale, frosty plume. She knew she should go in, but the air felt good, and she lingered a while longer, smiling to herself.

Lucy had woken alone that morning to find three origami cranes on the pillow beside her, and unfolded them to find Hank had written her love poems inside each one. Such sweetness was hard to resist, although the two of them had agreed to be discreet about their new relationship. They'd made it a point to stand apart, sit apart, talk to other people all through dinner, and now she was resenting it a little.

It didn't seem fair to be happy and have to keep it secret, she pouted to herself, and then laughed softly, thinking that particular complaint summed up a lot of things. She turned and began to stand when a familiar scent reached her, making her smile.

"Do you mind if I join you?" Hank requested formally, his voice deep.

Lucy shot him a sidelong look. "Are your intentions pure?"

"Absolutely not," Hank assured her, moving to stand a little behind her as they both looked out over the garden. Helena had tilled most of it over, but there were a few late squash and carrots still visible among the dead leaves and vines. Lucy leaned back against him, feeling warm radiate from Hank through his jacket.

"I thought you were a gentleman."

"Oftimes I am, but there are given situations when social convention can go take a flying leap," Hank replied, lightly stroking her arms. "I suspect that shift correlates directly to our physical proximity."

"Mmmm. Well I suppose this means I'll have to reconsider the offer I was going to make," Lucy replied softly. "Since I wouldn't want to be accused of encouraging unbecoming conduct among the faculty here."

"Ah, but free speech is a right, and even a duty, my dear," Hank murmured in his most coaxing tone. "You have the freedom to speak your mind and make whatever proposition you wish; believe me, I'm all yours."

"Peach pie. In bed."

Hank gave a low groan, and his hands gripped Lucy's shoulders. "That's an _excellent _suggestion, and I will go so far as to expound it with the preposition 'off of your nummy-num chest' as well. Ohhhhmy. I think I've just set a personal best in erectional responses with that one."

"_I'll _say," Lucy snorted, starting forward a tiny bit. "I've just been goosed by a redwood."

"Flattery as well—you are batting a _thousand _tonight, Doctor San Marcos," Hank purred, the sound morphing into a deep laugh. Lucy leaned back again, slipping a hand behind her for some surreptitious groping. It seemed to go over well, given the heavy throbbing against her palm.

"I thought that as an athlete, you'd want to abstain from anything . . . strenuous the night before a major game," Lucy mused, finally turning to face Hank.

He gave her a glance of dry amusement. "Do you seriously believe that _I_ believe in that old wives' tale? Psychologically, it's more advantageous for an athlete to be . . . relaxed . . . before competition."

"Far be it for me to hold you back from your best game," Lucy replied. "Although I suspect it's just an excuse for pie and cuddling."

"You're new to the staff; I feel personally responsible for your well-being and motivation," Hank assured her. "Further, by engaging in activities that promote pleasure and relaxation, it insures the positive attitude of two fellow players for the price of one, and strengthens deeper relations between them."

"Debate team?" Lucy asked, looping her arm through his and walking with Hank back into the building.

"Captain," he confirmed. "I earned the reputation of being irrefutable all through my academic years."

"I'm starting to see that."

*** *** ***

The day was overcast, and the distant smell of snow hung in the air. Helena whipped up batches of homemade waffles, setting out syrup, powdered sugar, butter and various chunky jams out to feed the competitors.

By eleven, the two teams had converged on the field of battle, more commonly known as the long green lawn on the west side of the mansion. The student team had opted to wear various shades of red, ranging from Oliver's brick knit sweater through Bobby's scarlet hoodie, while the faculty had gone with blue.

Charles settled for his usual black turtleneck to avoid any favoritism, and off on the sidelines, Helena was wrapped up in her long, plaid cape, pacing anxiously. She tried not to worry; nobody was going to get injured . . . she hoped. It was difficult to stay still though, and she looked at her fellow audience, which consisted of the stitched-up Rogue in a lawn chair, and several interested squirrels peeping through the hedges.

"Eight against four; doesn't seem fair, does it?" Rogue murmured, trying not to grin. "The kids are gonna get creamed."

"Probably," Helena agreed, looking out where Logan and Storm were talking quietly. Storm wore an aqua track suit; Logan had settled for jeans and a sleeveless dark blue undershirt despite the chill.

"Think the doc will be any good?" Rogue asked. "Because even if she was allowed to use it, scent power isn't gonna help a whole lot out on the field."

Helena shrugged. "She looks pretty fit, and willing to try, so I guess we'll see. I just don't want anyone to get hurt."

"Amen to that," Rogue agreed, touching her head lightly.

Charles laid out the ground rules in his best elocution, keeping it short. "Students are permitted to use both their enabled abilities and physical skills to move the ball towards their end zone and to prevent the opposing team from scoring. Faculty are permitted to use their physical skills_ only_ to move the ball towards their end zone."

"Stacking the deck," Logan grumbled, mostly for show. He flexed his shoulders against the chill and stared hard at the students.

"We'll see," Bobby shot back, shifting his weight from one hip to the other. "How long?"

"Four quarters," Charles told everyone. "Just as in a typical game for football. Team captains . . . ."

Hank and Bobby came forward, locking gazes in the mock-ferocity of adversaries playing up their competition for an amused audience.

"You are going _down_ Blue," Bobby tried to sound menacing.

"I assure you, Robert, you will have ample time to rue that fallacy while your team helps you collect all your molars and incisors from this lawn," Hank growled back, baring his fangs.

Bobby had trouble keeping a straight face, but he raised his hands in a clear taunt, daring Hank to bring it on. Charles held out a coin, seemingly unperturbed by the trash talk in front of him.

"Heads," Bobby called, and Charles flipped it.

It landed tails, and Hank gave a smile promising no good to his opponent. "Fortune favors the bold."

"Yeah, yeah; we'll see if Virgil applies," Bobby snorted, and walked back to his team while Hank returned the coin to Charles before loping off to his side of the field.

The staff grabbed an early lead; Hank and Logan took turns quarterbacking, and Storm proved herself lithe and agile as a wide receiver, weaving through the student defensive line time and time again. She had trouble with Desmond's stretching ability, but since he was still under a hundred pounds, breaking his grabs didn't take much.

Lucy did well as a pass receiver too, managing both quick runs and a talent at avoiding tackles. She had her hair in braids, and her pale blue sweatshirt had a logo for a brand of cough syrup on it; clearly a gift from some pharmacy rep.

By halftime the score was fifty-six to twenty-one, in favor of the faculty.

It was only in the third quarter that the students began to strategize their abilities and things took a slightly more comical turn. Bobby had been conventionally quarterbacking, and was using both Lauralee and Kitty for his receivers primarily, but managed a good quarterback sneak by slipping the ball to Oliver, who went invisible and simply walked to the end zone, leaving a huge and confused pile-up of players behind him.

Later, when the staff had possession of the ball again, Michi tripped up Wolverine with her earthmoving powers, creating man-sized potholes. She stripped him of the ball for a turnover and dashed to the end zone with it.

"I've heard of kicking up the turf, but this is nuts," he complained loudly as he made a show of pulling himself out of the pit and glaring the girl's way.

Michi merely grinned at him, her braces glittering in the light. "I'm sorry you are an old person and cannot jump, Mr. Logan."

He gnashed his teeth as Storm unsuccessfully tried to hide a snicker, and Hank cleared his throat.

"Old person?" Logan growled.

"At least she didn't refer to you as a senior citizen . . . which chronologically, you_ are_," Storm murmured as they took their stances to receive the ball. "Extremely."

Logan's glare shifted to his team mate. "Yeah, I'm old enough to get you downfield pronto, weather witch. Let's go—"

Storm snagged the kick and Logan snagged her, spinning to launch her over the heads of the startled students. She sailed skyward, biting her lip as the arc of his throw brought her down again, the grass looming quickly, however she stopped inches from the ground and dropped a second later, the momentum considerably cushioned.

"Penalty!" Bobby insisted. "She used her powers to buffer herself!"

"She did not," Charles assured them. "I invoked the imminent harm clause and stopped her myself. The goal stands."

"You _did_ know Charles would do that, right?" Lucy asked Logan. He arched an eyebrow and said nothing, but his smirk towards Storm, who was trotting back was slightly gleeful.

"Nice flight," he told her, "youngster."

Storm shot him a dry look. "Never EVER do that again."

Logan shrugged, teeth glinting white. "Sure. Not until we're tied, anyway."

Lucy stood downfield, ready to kick the ball away. She held it out, but Taymor flew at her in a quick, fierce dart, and Lucy gave a little yell of surprise, buckling to the ground.

Instantly a roar echoed over the field, vibrating in the air as Hank bounded over, hurdling above the heads of his team mates and opponents, the sound of his reaction so potent that Oliver nearly wet his pants, while Michi and Lauralee clutched each other in alarm. Taymor cried out, rolling himself into a ball, clutching his head protectively against the rush of blue furry fury headed his way.

"DON'TKILLMEMR.'COY!!" he yelled, his voice squeaky.

Hank scooped him up and gave a massive, sorrowful sigh. Carefully he reached an arm down to help Lucy to her feet, then cleared his throat in embarrassment.

Since the field had gone completely silent, everyone heard his chagrined words. "I . . . apologize sincerely, Taymor. That was very much an overreaction on my part and I did not intend to strike so much . . . terror . . . in you. But we must be careful with Doctor San Marcos—she has a weak ankle, and it would not do to injure it further."

"Yessir!" Taymor blurted. "Gotcha!"

Hank set him down gently. "Lucy, are you all right?" he asked, his voice lower.

She gave Hank a curt nod, and then turned to Taymor. "My ankle's fine. Doctor McCoy is a great big _mother HEN_ and he needs to remember it's just a game."

Suitably chastised, Hank sighed again, his ears drooping a bit.

Bobby came up and cuffed his shoulder, grinning. "You get points for best Game Face _ever_. Okay, shall we get back to playing?"

The match continued, and after several more creative touchdowns from the students, it ended in their victory, sixty-three to fifty-nine. Afterwards, everyone shook hands, and Taymor made it a point to hug Hank, who accepted it gratefully.

Helena ordered everyone to clean up immediately before the turkey enchilada brunch, buffet style in the recreation room. She headed in to make sure everything was set up, grateful that the game had ended so successfully and with no bloodshed—

This time.


	15. Chapter 15

Lucy showered quickly and made her way to the mansion, heading to Hank's suite. Wet and wrapped in towels, he answered her knock with alacrity, his expression woebegone and dripping. "I'm sorry."

"It's done and over, mi novio," Lucy told him gently. "You feel bad enough, and both Taymor and I have forgiven you. Need some brushing?"

"Yes," Hank admitted, relief flooding across his face. "That would be a Godsend."

"Good," Lucy smiled. "After I've done you, could you do me? I've got knots at my nape that I can't quite comb out. Would you mind?"

"I would be honored," Hank rumbled, eyes bright. "Quid pro quo never looked so good."

She laughed, and followed him into his room.

*** *** ***

Helena waited until most of the students were helping themselves and chattering before slipping away, leaving Michi to handle the supervision. She slowly made her way up the back stairs to her rooms, wondering if it would be better to take a nap or a shower, and feeling a little hurt that Logan hadn't so much as looked her way during the entire game.

As she opened the door to her apartment, the scent of smoke and steam hit her, and Helena blinked, startled. Carefully she closed the door behind her and stepped carefully through her living room, alert and apprehensive; Helena knew that although the school was secure, anything was possible.

She wasn't quite prepared though, for the sight of her claw-foot tub, filled three-quarters of the way up with hot water, with a nude and soapy Logan arrogantly lounging in it, arms draped along the sides in a lordly manner. The cheroot between his white teeth smoldered.

Actually _all _of Logan seemed to smolder, she thought, slightly dazed. He puffed the stogie slightly and shot her a glittering glance.

He wasn't smiling.

"Don't you have your _own_ tub?" Helena managed slowly. It was hard to think clearly when he looked at her the way he was doing now; dark-eyed and hungry.

"Mine was missing something," came his slow reply. "Get in."

"Is that an invitation, or an order?" Helena shot back, startled at the anger in her own voice. It was gratifying to see Logan's gaze narrow a bit as he rolled the cheroot from one side of his mouth to the other.

"Nobody orders _you_ around, Helena—not if they want to keep all their . . . . body parts," Logan grunted slowly. "Maybe I didn't phrase it right. Get in . . . please."

She dropped her hands on her hips and stared at him. "Is that supposed to entice me? You didn't even look my way _once_ today and now I'm just supposed to hop in?"

"I looked at you plenty; you just didn't see me do it," Logan replied sullenly. "That was sort of the point, wasn't it?"

Helena paused, chewing her lip, since he was right, in a roundabout way. She _did_ want to keep their relationship private for as long as they could; not out of shame, but simply because it was wiser to do so in the long run. Given that the man was naked in her tub, he probably _had _looked at her once or twice.

"We won't fit," she countered softly.

Logan finally smiled, and his look was enough to send hot pangs of desire through her belly. "You'll be tight, but I can manage."

Helena drew in a quick breath, wanting to grab him and slap him simultaneously. She felt the pull; that slow, sweet draw that existed between them, as inevitable as a tide and as hard to fight. "You are so _damned _sure of yourself, aren't you?"

Logan kept his gaze on her as a thin thread of smoke rose from his cheroot. With deliberation he took it out and spoke, his voice low. "Two days after I met you, Helena, I had a dream with you in it."

She took a step closer, drawn by the rasp of his voice. "A dream."

Logan leaned back in the tub, his skin wet and gleaming. "Yeah," he sighed, his tone making it blatantly clear as to the erotic nature of his nocturnal reverie. "That hadn't happened to me in a hell of a long time."

Helena blinked because his voice was deep, and almost . . . sweet.

"In it, you were taking this bath, all wet and steamy . . ." Logan's voice grew thicker. " . . . been thinking of that off and on for nearly a year now."

It was hard to resist the lure of him, and Helena stepped closer. "A year?"

"Just about. I think of that dream every time I go to sleep. One last sweet image in my head."

Helena leaned over and plucked the cigar from his hand, tossing it into the bathroom sink. Logan made no objection since she bent down close at the same time, her warm breath against his, near enough to feel the edge of her aura against his own.

"You made that up," she accused in a breathy voice.

Logan's face tightened a little. "Nope."

Helena moved forward, brushing her smooth cheek against his scratchy one, a cat-like caress that let them scent each other. "Then we'll . . . have to make it a reality, won't we?"

He liked the sound of that. Logan held still, sensing the shift in Helena. She'd gone from defiant to sultry now, and although it was hard not to reach up and grab her, he kept his hands along the sides of the tub and waited.

This was not a woman to be rushed.

Helena straightened up again, and slowly undid her blouse, moving gracefully from button to button, her eyes never leaving Logan. He watched intently as she shed her shirt, and then languidly unhooked her bra, pulling it free.

Logan bit back a harsh moan as her full and pale breasts jiggled a bit in the low afternoon light, tempting him on. He shifted, wishing there was more of it coming through the small window, but even in the overcast glow, Helena looked exotic, brushing her hair back from her shoulders.

She rose and undid her jeans, skimming them from her hips in an unhurried movement, and Logan tensed again, fighting the surge of searing desire flaring down his stomach as Helena gracefully stepped out of her pants and pushed them aside. Nude now, she brushed a hand across her stomach, and her expression—shy, trusting and intimate—made him grit his teeth.

"I'm on . . . birth control," Helena murmured. "Is that okay?"

"Yes," he managed, reaching out a hand to her.

Helena took it and stepped into the tub, moving in a slow elegance until she was standing over him, feet on either side of his lean hips, her hands cupping her breasts.

He couldn't stop the growl from rising in his throat, or the throb of his heavy cock as he took in the luscious view of her over him, strong, long and naked. Logan reached for her, wet hands sliding up along the back of her knees and thighs, cupping her firm ass as he brought his face towards the tempting tangle of curls between her thighs.

"Whatever I've gotta do to have you, I'll do it," he rasped, breath blowing against her furry triangle. "Wanted you a long time; it's different now, Helena. Need you."

In one pulse of a moment they looked at each other, and then Helena shifted, lowering herself on her knees, her hands finding him, guiding him in wet fumbles, shivering as he felt his pulse hammer hard.

Logan pressed into her, sliding deep in one stroke and Helena's searing porcelain slickness made him hiss. She was gripping his wet shoulders, and the squeeze of her body had him shuddering, fighting _hard _for control.

"God!" she cried out, fingers curling as she dug her nails into him. It was a sweet little pain spicing his pleasure, and Logan growled again.

The water sloshed around them, rising in heavy surges over the edges of the tub to soak the bathmat, but neither Helena nor Logan cared as they rocked against each other, building a rhythm between them that not even the water could stop. Logan tried to be gentle, but Helena was frantically nipping his neck, and her hot mouth against his wet skin was driving him slightly mad. All his senses were locked in on the woman in a stunning kaleidoscope of pleasure that had him panting now, driving close to the edge of sanity as she gasped and grunted, her pliant chest rubbing up against his.

Then Helena breathed into his ear, her words low and strong. "Close, GodLogan, so . . . . Ooohhhhhhhhhh!"

The sound of her climax combined with the sudden clench of her body was too much, and Logan grunted, gripping the sides of the tub as the deep surges of his own orgasm pulsed forth, wringing him inside out and making him see white flashes behind his closed eyes.

His claws glittered in the reflected light from the puddles on the floor.

Helena slumped against him and after a moment, he wrapped his arms around her, keeping her close, nuzzling her face lightly for a long time.

After a while, she reluctantly pulled away and gave him a wry grin. "We have to get out . . . water's getting cold."

He grunted in agreement, not in any sort of hurry to let her out of his embrace, but Helena's practicality was always one of her charms.

They climbed out and toweled off; Helena pulled the plug and turned to him, her profile mysterious and beautiful as she brushed back a long strand from her cheek. "Stay awhile?"

Logan shot her a stern look and moved to pick her up. Helena yelped, but he ignored it and brought her face up to his until they were almost nose to nose. "Neither of us is goin' anywhere."

He carried her to the bed in the next room, grimly amused that she kept protesting about dishes and puddles. Lightly, Logan set her on the bed and loomed over Helena, pinning her there with the weight of his stare.

Helena looked down the length of his damp, muscled body and gave a sensual sigh. "Is that for me?"

"Yep," Logan assured her as he moved to plant lingering kisses along her jaw line and down her throat. "My gift for you that keeps on giving."

"Gimmee," Helena laughed, and wrapped her arms around him.

*** *** ***

By dawn, the first snow had fallen; a damp, thick snow perfect for packing and building. Rising early, Bobby was delighted, and set to work shaping fantastic sculptures along the hedges, letting his sense of whimsy loose.

He made snow-people, most with familiar faces. Rogue was a fairy, with glittering wings; Lauralee a Dryad. Taymor, Oliver and Raymundo were now a trio of white chipmunks scampering over the tops of the hedges.

Bobby had just finished doing a snowy noble image of Charles Xavier as a Roman emperor, complete with laurel leaves and robe, seated on a throne when he heard the side door of the mansion open and noticed Hank making his way through the drifts, moving in the direction of the guest cottage. Curious, Bobby ducked behind his masterpiece and peeked out.

Hank unlocked the cottage and stepped inside; Bobby raised an eyebrow at this, and grinned when moments later, Hank emerged again with a shopping bag full of clothes.

The temptation to throw a snowball was strong; Hank was an easy target against all the whiteness, but Bobby resisted, and let him trudge back into the mansion unscathed and unaware that he'd been seen.

Bobby shook his head, amused and pleased for Hank. He turned back to creating art, as under his fingers, a snow monkey with Skeeter's face sat peeling a pile of icicle bananas.

*** *** ***

Christmas was a time of mixed emotions at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, and the mood throughout the place ranged from quiet introspection through giddy good cheer depending on the person involved. Helena had weathered several holidays, and Christmas was by far the most disruptive.

And the most fun, she had to admit. The mansion was especially beautiful in the holiday season with fresh pine wreaths and boughs in the long windows, and glittering decorations displayed along the hallways and main rooms. Many were Xavier family heirlooms, but over the years various students had contributed to the collection, and now the atmosphere was definitely upbeat.

A huge pile of mistletoe showed up early one morning on the kitchen worktable, fresh and damp from the snow. Helena checked the floor for footprints, but there were none; suspiciously, she glanced around, feeling the hair on the back of her neck rising. A moment later, it was being nuzzled.

"You look like a woman who appreciates ancient traditions," Logan rumbled, lightly kissing her neck. "Right?"

"Kissing under the mistletoe? We'd have to get under the table," Helena pointed out, rubbing back against the solid muscle of Logan's chest.

"I'm good with it," he assured her. "Real good."

"I _bet,"_ Helena purred. "Mmmmm, I'm glad you're back."

"Gonna show me how much?" came the hopeful question as Logan slid his arms around her waist, mouth moving around the side of her slender throat. Helena arched in pleasure; the man definitely knew a few of her buttons, that was for sure.

"Right here in the middle of the kitchen where anybody might come trotting down for a bowl of cereal?" Helena moaned, her voice patient but slightly frustrated. "You're kidding."

"For something like this, I never kid," Logan assured her gruffly. "Come here—"

She reluctantly let herself be tugged down the three stone steps to the pantry, passing with Logan through the door and into the still darkness there.

He spun her, bringing his back against the door to close it and pulled Helena close; she slithered into his arms, kissing him hungrily, tasting faint hints of tobacco in his hot mouth. Their tongues slid together in a soft tangle, and Helena rocked her hips against him, aware that lust was flaring between her hips now.

It had been difficult to watch him head out this time; harder to smile and nod when Logan announced he'd be off for a few days. He'd told her in private earlier, so it hadn't been a surprise when he said it again at the breakfast table. Helena *knew* he'd be back—he always came back--but still, seeing him ride off on the motorcycle through the gates had driven a stab of pain through her heart.

Now Logan was here in her arms, pulling her close and murmuring something against her cheek. "Damn I missed you," he admitted quietly, his hands roaming down her back to stroke her ass.

Helena laughed against his mouth and reached for his fly, fingers caressing his thick length along it. "This for me?"

"You bet," he assured her with a growl.

It was deliciously wicked to kiss him in the dark, Helena decided, and she did it again, this time hard enough to bruise. He drank it in eagerly, his growl of pleasure low as she let her mouth travel wetly over his face, scraping his bristles and tasting the cool scent of the woods on him. She quickly undid the rivets of his jeans and pushed them down, laughing against his mouth as Logan tugged her nightgown up.

"Do me. Right now," Helena demanded.

"Pushy," Logan grunted in a gloating tone. "_Like _that."

"I bet—" Helena ground up against him, her fingers stroking his thick length. Logan drew in a breath for control and ended up grunting when she dropped to her knees and slipped her lips around his shaft.

"Helena!" he hissed, fighting the wet pleasure of her mouth. She gave a purr he felt rather than heard, and for a few minutes Logan fought to keep standing, his hips already rocking towards her. "Stop--"

He felt her slow, and lightly tease him for long moments longer before finally swiping her tongue around the head of his cock and brushing her cheek against the thick, wiry fur around it. "You _are_ happy to see me."

"Honey, you gave me an order and I'm _tryin'_ to do it, but Christ, if you're going to do things like this--" Logan growled, reaching to bring her to her feet. "—I may just have to spank you."

"Mmmmmmm, that could . . . ." Helena shifted one long leg around his hip and reached between them, ". . . be hot too, oooffh!"

He thrust into her, sliding slickly in, both of them gasping at the heat. Logan gripped Helena's ass in his palms and yanked her against him as he pressed his back against the pantry door.

For a long while, they thumped against the wood, clashing in the dark, a tangle of kisses and groans and through it all the lovely wet thrust and squeeze of their bodies caught in quick, hungry syncopation began to build, stroke by stroke.

Helena panted, every nerve thrumming now, the tension between her thighs tightening. She grasped Logan's shoulders, squeezing hard, grinding against him and nipping his cheek, his neck, his mouth. Deep within her she could feel his shaft eagerly swelling and the sensation made her clench hard.

Logan grunted, deliberately angling his hands down, feeling his sense of control evaporating. He rocked his hips hard and the sweet, sullen fire began to throb within him. "Helena----!"

She couldn't hold out long, not at the rasp of her name against her lips. Helena tensed as the lovely wash of timeless pleasure hit her like a wave, rolling up from their joined bodies and leaving her out of breath and quaking, barely clinging to Logan's broad shoulders as she shook and muffled her cry against his open mouth.

Logan growled; a primitive, possessive rumble, a sound that left her nipples hard as heat erupted deep within her, wet and thick.

Dimly Helena heard a metallic 'ching' and felt a tug behind her, but she couldn't focus, and it was easier to slump against Logan's flannel-covered chest, sated and weak. To his credit, he managed to hold the both of them up and she could hear the quick pounding of his heart where her ear rested against his chest.

Blindly she raised her head and nuzzled up to his mouth, kissing the soft slackness there, tasting his smile. "Welcome back, Logan."

He laughed. "Christ, _that's_ worth coming home for!" Carefully he ran one gentle hand down her bare bottom, and Helena realized he was checking to see if . . . .

. . . If he'd clawed her. She shivered.

"Damn. Looks like I own you a nightie," he sighed. "No cuts?"

"Nope. Do . . . do they always pop out?" Helena asked softly, shifting to pull their bodies apart. It was messy and sticky, but she didn't care.

"No," Logan grumbled. "But you . . . blow my control."

She giggled at that, and he managed a gruff chuckle himself, then bent to kiss her tenderly before pulling back and cocking his head.

Helena gave him a confused look, and Logan spoke softly as he did up his jeans and tucked his shirt in. "Someone's coming. Still in the hallway, so move—get up to your place and I'll take care of whoever it is."


	16. Chapter 16

_(Recap--Logan and Helena have just had an intimate reunion in the pantry, and now someone is coming into the kitchen.)_

She bit her lip and slipped past him, out into the kitchen again and to the stairwell that led up to her rooms. Logan watched her go, then moved to the coffeemaker, trying to look nonchalant. He knew he needed to go shower, and soon, but for the moment, a bluff was best.

The footsteps grew louder, and Logan poured himself a cup, his back to the door. Judging by the weight and steps . . .

"Good mor . . . " Lucy murmured, her words trailing off mid-greeting as she stepped into the kitchen, ". . . ning. Oh," she stopped, blinking a little. Logan could hear her embarrassment, and sighed inwardly.

Out of all the people to come in, yeah it _had_ to be the one with the mutant olfactory capacity.

He risked a look over his shoulder; Lucy was shifting from one foot to the other, deliberately avoiding his gaze. "Want some coffee?"

"Yes, um, if it's already made," Lucy murmured, finally looking at him. Logan pointed with his chin to the cupboard and she took down a mug, bringing it over to him. He took it, along with a deep breath.

She hadn't been with Blue for a few days, and had showered before coming over to the mansion. And she was both embarrassed and a little scared.

"Helena will be back down in a while," Logan grunted. "Take anything in this?"

"Cream and sugar," Lucy replied distractedly. "Er, what's that on the table?"

"Mistletoe," he replied.

"I always thought it came in_ little_ bunches," Lucy blurted.

"It can be big or small, depending," Logan pointed out, not unkindly. "Listen, I need to . . . explain . . ."

Lucy shook her head, taking the cup of coffee from him. "No you don't. You both are grownups, and entitled to privacy, so I see nothing and I, um, smell nothing."

Logan raised a quizzical eyebrow, but his mouth was already tweaking into a small smile. "That's a pretty generous philosophy, but I appreciate it. Point is, I don't give a damn what people say about me, but I _do_ care what's said about her."

Lucy nodded slowly and sipped the coffee before replying. "I respect that; you're a . . . . courtly man, Mr. Logan."

"Just Logan," he muttered. "And I don't know if 'courtly' is the word for me. I'm . . . particular."

"You're cantankerous," Lucy countered. "Comes with being as old as you are."

"I'm not old. I'm set in my ways, and that's because I'm right most of the time."

This made Lucy laugh, and she finally looked directly at Logan, her gaze steady. "You're more trickster than skinwalker."

His expression tightened, and Logan drew himself up a bit. "That's what was bothering you about me, isn't it?"

She hesitated, and then nodded. "Yes. I breathed it in when we first met. You've got touched blood in you, and it scared me. It _still _scares me. The children are safe enough, but I wouldn't care to be the adult who crosses your will, Logan."

The sigh that left him was slow and measured; an indication of control. Logan gave a nod. "That makes you a hell of a lot smarter than most people."

Lucy might have said something more, but the sound of slow footsteps grew louder, until both Skeeter and Raymundo made their way into the kitchen, arguing.

"The monkey is YOU, dork!" Raymundo snapped. "Totally!"

"Nuh UH!" came the reply. "No way!"

"The monkey?" Lucy asked, and both boys broke off their fighting to explain about the sculptures out along the front of the school. In the confusion, Logan slipped out the back door and up the stairs, his expression thoughtful.

*** *** ***

Hank looked down at the list in hand and gave a little frown. Christmas shopping was normally an errand he enjoyed; the challenge of matching the perfect gift to the recipient appealed to both his sense of logic and humor.

Aggie, for example. For the last two years along with chocolate and new gloves, he'd given her a subscription to Duet of the Month, and knew it was just the sort of challenge his secretary and her paramour could share and enjoy. The thought of Aggie on her banjo and her fiancée Reuben on his flute brought to mind an amusing and endearing image, the two of them rehearsing together, so earnest in their quest for harmony, both in music and in life.

Yes, Aggie was fairly easy to please at Christmas.

Hank considered again. His parents weren't difficult either; continuing their Sunset magazine subscription and loading up on gift certificates for KOA campgrounds generally fit the bill for their on-the-road lifestyle. His parents had extended itineraries and the time to travel; he enjoyed their postcards that showed up from exotic locales like Benny's Alligator Bar and Beauty Salon in Swampgarden, Florida.

Charles, Bobby, Ororo . . . Hank knew their tastes and preferences, and shopped accordingly. Charles enjoyed good sherry, mystery novels and the occasional tie. Bobby was pleased with Twinkies, high tech toys and whatever CDs he didn't currently have. Ororo delighted in receiving new slippers and a yearly pass to the Boston Planetarium.

Simple and fun.

But Lucy . . . it was more complicated now with someone new, someone increasingly important in the mix. Hank had debated on what to get her, his fancy ranging from classically tasteful gifts such as books and music to decidedly personal ones like lingerie and perfume, although he doubted she'd ever need the latter. To *his* nose, Lucy was definitely, completely delicious without any artificial enhancement.

Still, it was with a blend of trepidation and sly hope that he added the Caro Mio catalog to the list, and set about purchasing a gift card to go with it.

He was still debating on the potential of getting Oliver a replacement turtle when his phone rang, and with a sigh, Hank answered it, tucking the list away.

"Doctor McCoy?" came the uncertain voice, feminine, with a hint of a Nordic accent.

"Speaking," Hank assured her.

"Ah good. I'm Lara, from Doctor Linderhoff's office, calling to confirm your invitation to the Wonderland Gala at the St. James this coming Saturday? I have you down as bringing a guest, jah?"

"That's correct, and yes, we will be delighted to attend," Hank assured her, feeling pleased at the upcoming festivity. Sure this invitation was probably a political consideration, but it never hurt to represent the mutant community in public, and it would be nice to take Lucy out officially.

"Wonderful," Lara replied, and Hank heard the tapping of computer keys in the background. "Doctor Linderhoff will be so pleased."

"As will I," Hank replied. "Thank you very much."

He hung up, smiling.

*** *** ***

Logan watched as the younger students made clear detours around the mistletoe dangling from the main hall doorway, making faces. Taymor and Raymundo were still too young to appreciate the possibilities that the tradition offered, but Skeeter and Desmond was more than happy to conveniently be around whenever Lauralee or Michi were passing by. Little Oliver still look surprised to be kissed, but didn't seem to mind, and only Storm had the courage to buss Charles so far.

And then there was Rogue.

Logan felt a lingering pang for the girl, who so clearly deserved a kiss and couldn't have or give any. She avoided the doorway and smiled at the horseplay under it, but Logan could sense her hidden melancholy. Therefore, he pushed himself away from the wall, padding over when Rogue stepped in, carrying an armful of packages.

"Logan," she murmured, surprised. He glanced up, letting her gaze follow his, and she tried to step back, but her smirked.

"Tradition."

"It's too dangerous," she told him earnestly, but before Rogue could finish, he lightly kissed her, a warm, sweet press against the corner of her mouth, holding it for several seconds as she gave a little surprised squeak.

It hurt. The sudden vacuum of his vitality stung, and it took effort to remain standing, but Logan forced himself to smile at her and stay nonchalant even as he felt his life force dim for a long few seconds.

"You're . . . crazy," Rogue whispered, bringing her hand up to brush the corner of her mouth when she pulled away., but she was smiling, eyes bright.

"So they say," Logan murmured, shifting to lean one shoulder against the doorway for the support. He could feel himself recovering, albeit not quite as quickly as if it had been an actual physical wound. "Couldn't pass up the chance."

"Crazy," Rogue repeated, but she blinked and smiled, clutching her packages more tightly. Before she reached the hall for the rooms, she half-turned and shot him a glance of warm gratitude.

Logan smirked back.

She might be a hard girl to kiss, but she'd be an easy one to love, he acknowledged, and hoped Bobby wouldn't bear a grudge. Sauntering slowly, he moved towards the kitchen, feeling stronger with each step.

Helena looked up, the question in her eyes, and he nodded. "She liked it."

"Thought she would," Helena nodded with satisfaction. "Just as long as she was happy and _you_ didn't like it too much."

Logan shook his head. "Too young, not my type, and you sound jealous." He moved closer, nuzzling up against Helena, who was trying to lay lasagna noodles in a pan.

She sniffed prettily. "I'm not."

"Ah," Logan purred in her ear. "Not even a tiny bit?"

"Don't push it, Logan," Helena growled back, but she was grinning.

*** *** ***

The first of the winter morning light shone through the cottage curtains, and Lucy sleepily considered the big blue man in her bed. Hank lay sprawled on his broad back, snoring lightly, the sound low and comforting; a sound Lucy sensed she could get used to very easily.

She watched his big furry chest slowly rise and fall with each breath; noted how the simple act of breathing still showcased his size. It made her feel feminine, this gentle observation of his physique, and Lucy shifted, moving closer to press against his side. In his sleep, Hank gave a pleased murmur and tightened his arm around her, then drifted into a deeper slumber.

Lucy stifled a laugh, amused at how quickly she'd become her lover's security blanket, and how mutual the response was. She'd always prided herself on her independence, but having Hank within arm's reach during the night was an unexpected comfort Lucy hadn't realized she'd been missing in her life. Hank was warm and soothing; he carried the scent of security in his very musk.

Warmth and reassurance, Lucy sighed happily. She pursed her mouth and blew a little breath across his fur, ruffling it a little. She let her gaze rove over him, and smiled at the sight of Hank's brawny, shaggy frame.

Blue—it truly _was _her favorite color now, Lucy admitted to herself, and Doctor McCoy was best personification of it out there. She lightly slid a hand over his stomach, stroking the short fur and strong muscles. Under her fingertips he reacted, tensing a bit.

Lucy checked; sure enough Hank's shaft was thickening in response, and she muffled a giggle. Lightly, playfully Lucy slid her grip as far as she could around his burgeoning erection, caressing the warm heft of it ever so lightly.

Although still three quarters asleep, Hank gave a low, thick moan and his hips flexed. Lucy stilled her touch, waiting for his breathing to even out again before caressing him once more. Under her fingers, the veins pulsed hotly, and she bent to draw her lips along the length of his erection.

It was . . . impressive. Human or mutant, Hank McCoy was definitely gifted, and not just in the brains department, Lucy knew. He had many lovely dimensions, and these under his cute little navel were among her favorites. She breathed in the scent of him: ferns and parchment, but here especially, warm male musk, furry and enticing.

Lucy risked an experimental lick, and was rewarded by a rumbly groan rising out of Hank's deep chest. "If this is a dream, it is undoubtedly the best I've had since the onset of puberty. And if it is _not _a dream, then please don't stop, my love."

"You're _supposed_ to be asleep."

"Around you, I'm an early riser," Hank punned back gently. "Honestly, dear heart, how can I _not _be when you . . . . ooh, yeah----" he trailed off with a little growl. Lithely Hank propped his heavy elbows behind him and rose up a bit, looking down the length of his body, watching with bright-eyed delight as Lucy kissed his shaft.

"Admit it; you hate this," she teased, flicking her tongue at him in a seductively playful manner.

"It's utter hell," Hank sighed, a deep purr rumbling from his chest, "sheer torture that I put up with only because of my devotion to you."

Lucy said nothing; her mouth was full, and Hank bared his fangs as his hips rocked up again gently. She heard his breathing change and felt the heat build against her lips. The pleasure of giving Hank pleasure made her smile, and Lucy slowed her sucking, determined to make the experience a leisurely joy for both of them.

Hank's little grunts and groans assured her she was definitely pleasing him; when one of his big hands uncertainly stroked her hair, Lucy paused and looked up at him mischievously. "Go on, push me," she murmured. "I don't mind."

"Lucy . . ." he hesitated. "It's . . . uncivil."

That made her laugh in a husky spill of chuckles. "My darling—I have your _dick_ in my mouth. That's hardly a polite situation."

She felt him throb in her fingers, in contradiction to his next words. "Precisely my point. I don't want to impose my desirerrrrrrrrrr . . ."

Lucy had slipped her mouth over the thick head of his cock again, effectively distracting Hank from coherent thought. It was fun to do, putting him off-balance like this. After a few suckles more, she pulled back again and smirked up at him. "Push me, _please_?"

She bent over him again, waiting, and after a few seconds, felt Hank's hand gently rest on her head, barely touching it.

Lucy sighed to herself.

She loved the man; she truly did. Hank McCoy was tender, sweet, sexy and brilliant. He made her laugh, he made her come, and somewhere along the line Lucy San Marcos knew she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, however long or short that might be.

But this reluctance of his to let go during intimate moments was starting to frustrate her, and once again Lucy cursed his former girlfriend for her unwanted emotional legacy.

Hank was gentle. And gentlemanly. Overly so in bed. He never used his strength, never cursed, never gave into his animal side at all until orgasm, and even then, apologized for it. Lucy gradually worked out the reasons for his reticence, and it broke her heart to realize that Hank McCoy was victim of brainwashing.

Had it been over anything else, his misguided thinking could be corrected with a few honest conversations, but since his belief was tied to sex and intimacy, Lucy knew it ran deep, and that it would take a lot of love and work to free him again.

In the meantime, she loved him and let him know that he too, was loved even as she gently worked at re-teaching Hank how to be an animal in bed.

Lucy reached up, placed her hand over his, and playfully pushed, making a happy sound that vibrated against Hank's erection. He groaned, and she felt his fingers tighten slightly in her hair.

Progress.

More forcefully she pushed and hummed again, trying to create some positive reinforcement, but she got the giggles and had to stop, pulling her lips up from the wet head of his cock and laughing softly. Hank shot her a quizzical look, tinged with love. "Yes, my darling?"

"Sorry, you have a very cute groan."

He blinked slowly, and Lucy spluttered again, this time crawling up the length of his sprawled body and kissing Hank firmly as she rubbed herself against his fur.

Hank slipped his arms around her, pulling her to rest on him, his erection trapped between their bodies, throbbing and warm. "I fear I shall never understand the feminine mind, darling one."

"Mmmmm," Lucy murmured, a sound that could be an agreement or not. She moved to nip his nose, and shifted, bringing her lips to his ear. "No thinking allowed right now. Just . . . doing."

"Doing . . ." Hank echoed, his eyes half-closing. "Such an apropos verb . . ."

"Shhh," came her low chide. "Smell me, sweetheart. I am very, very interested in fucking you."

Lucy felt Hank's pulse jump at her deliberately crude phrase, and she rubbed her body against his as she continued. "I've sucked your cock so I know you're hard for me right now."

His hands slid around her ass, and his fingers tightened, gripping firmly. Lucy drew in a happy breath as her body responded to that.

Loved the man, yes she did, and help him get back his beastly mojo, she would.


	17. Chapter 17

Hank was feeling good. Given what was in his hands, he was feeling _extremely_ good, and things were going to get much better very quickly as he shifted Lucy forward and rubbed himself against the warm join of her thighs.

There was something so sweetly wonderful about the way Lucy responded to his caresses; she gave a happy purr and wriggled against him, giggling a little as he gave a small, frustrated sound.

Her openness still startled him, still aroused the hell out of him. Hank wasn't used to anyone so damned enthusiastic about his body. Lucy would _pet _him and comb his fur and rub against him whenever they had a private moment together. She knew all his ticklish places and tender ones, and had kissed damned near every part of him above his waistline and a good bit of it below, as well.

For a man who fought self-consciousness on a daily basis, and whose last lover had insisted on sex only in the dark, it was a delightful turn of events. Hank found himself torn between getting a bit bolder, and holding back, not wanting to put this lovely relationship at risk.

But Lucy was _so_ damned tempting. Hank rubbed himself again between her squeezed thighs, savoring the pang of pleasure that throbbed through him.

"Want me?" she teased.

"Oui. Ja. Si. Da," Hank told her, trying not to sound greedy. "Hai, Jep, Aiwa, Aye, Ye, Dui--"

"---Now you're just showing off!" Lucy accused, squirming as she tried to glare at him. Hank could tell by her dimples that she was only moments away from laughing. He moved to lick her throat, tasting the faint salt and warm peach flavor that was unique to her.

"I simply want it universally understood that I'm responding in the affirmative, my fragrant flower," Hank muttered, shifting to rock against her body. Lucy was getting as wriggly as an eel and the sensations were amazingly good.

"Yeah, I can tell, Doot," she replied a little breathlessly, bending to lick one of his bottom fangs. "Want you too."

"Good—we're in accord," Hank sighed. He let his palms slide around the curve of her cheeks to pull her thighs open, but Lucy shifted away from him, rolling off Hank and scrambling over the rumpled covers. He looked over at her, surprised until Lucy rose up on her hands and knees, smirking at him.

"Do me," came her throaty order. "We both know you _want _to!"

Hank grunted, torn.

He wanted; there was no doubt physically about that. The image Lucy presented as she eyed him over her shoulder was calling to every bit of testosterone in his loins, which was a damned lot at the moment. Hank felt himself moving even as his mind chided him for responding, Trish's disapproving words echoing in his head.

_We're not animals, Hank. There's no reason not to be face to face!_

"Lucy . . ." he murmured softly.

She laughed and tossed her hair back, the dark, glossy mane slithered over her bare shoulders. "Going to make me start without you?" she teased, and bent to slide a hand down between her thighs.

He gave a deep growl at the sight of her graceful fingers raking through the fluff, shifting for a better view.

"D_amn_ it," Hank whispered, close to howling now. Lucy was rocking from knee to knee, waggling her bottom, and the sight of those tan mounds framing the dark curls was making him light-headed.

Then she gave a sweet little groan. "Lust is filling me, Hank. Pleeeeease . . . ."

Hank rose up and moved behind her, stroking her smooth ass with his big palms. The aroused scent of Lucy filled his nose, and he couldn't think, not with that seductive perfume making him throb.

She backed up against him, reaching down further between her legs to lovingly cup his shaft. "Oh yes, this, please, my love—"

"I . . . don't want to hurt you," he tried one last time to appease the trepidation still in his thoughts.

Lucy gripped him playfully, and gave a purr. "Oh you won't. Mmmmm, I can see us," she added, "sort of."

Hank glanced up; in the glass of the framed picture on the opposite wall he could see the dim reflections of the two of them. The image of his lover on her hands and knees made him grind his teeth so hard his fangs clacked. "Luuucyyyyyy . . ." came his harsh groan.

Lucy took advantage of his momentary distraction and guided the thick head of his shaft against her cleft; he rocked forward as she pushed back, and as he sank into her, both of them cried out with pleasure, Hank's bass tones under Lucy's sultry alto.

He couldn't stop, not with the slippery squeeze of her around his prick, and the long, luscious view of Lucy's naked ass and back below him. Hank gripped her hips and thrust, the rush of pleasure so strong with each stroke that he panted.

Lucy grunted happily, pushing back against him, hard and Hank rocked with her, finding the _perfect _rhythm as the bed creaked under them. In a daze, he noted that she was clutching the bedspread hard enough to snag it in her nails, and that her little cries of delight were getting faster and louder.

Then she howled.

If there was anything Lucy was in bed--beyond sexy and uninhibited--loud definitely fit the bill, and it was more than enough to send Hank over the edge of ecstasy as he plowed harder and came, his pulse hammering as bliss seared through him all the way to the edges of his fur.

It took everything he had not to collapse on Lucy's back; with effort Hank gracelessly slumped to one side, taking her with him, still joined. She gave a great long sigh of satisfaction and lay next to him, skin to fur, quiet now, radiating heat and musk.

They drowsed for a long moment, utterly relaxed. Lucy sighed again and twisted her head to brush her cheek against Hank's shoulder. "Azule querido, esta bien?"

"If I felt any better, I'd be a mere puddle on the spread," Hank assured her in a husky voice. "Dear God, Lucy, you are enough to drive a _saint _to distraction."

"Good thing you're no saint then, hmmmm?" she murmured, a hint of gloat in her tone. "Ohhh, that was good!"

"I concur," Hank sighed with pleasure. "Although I fear I was probably very rough on you---"

"Nope," Lucy broke in, slightly impatient. "No post-coital analysis, Doot. We did it doggy-style and it was beastly fun. End of assessment."

He arched an eyebrow at this, but said nothing more, content to drowse with his arms around Lucy. Gradually though, she roused herself and pulled away, turning to shoot him a soft smile. "Clean-up time," came her murmur.

Lucy stepped into the bathroom and returned moments later with a warm, wet washcloth. She began to wipe Hank's shaft, but he took the cloth from her and did it himself, blushing a bit. "You needn't do that for me--"

"I don't mind," she told him, coming to sit cross-legged on the bed. "You've cleaned _me _before."

"Circumstances were different," Hank replied, remembering their communal shower with a sly smirk. "As you well know."

"So _you_ say," Lucy smirked back, reaching across him for her glasses on the nightstand. "Hank, I'm nervous about tonight. I'm not exactly the most brilliant conversationalist on the planet, you know."

"Neither am I, and there's a very good chance I'll be the only obvious mutant there, so I need all the moral support I can get," he coaxed. "We need not stay, Lucy love, just long enough to put in an appearance and pay back a few social debts on my part. After that, we can go, I promise you."

"Okay," Lucy agreed, tossing her hair back. "When you put it like _that_--"

"Thank you," he sighed. "Believe me, I'm not fond of Washington parties myself, but I understand their usefulness in terms of social benefit and connection. And the food is generally good."

"It's not the food that worries me," Lucy sighed back.

Hank pulled her into his arms, his nose at the crown of her head as he gently hugged her. "You are strong, and I will make it a point not to keep you in temptation's way my dear one," he assured her.

*** *** ***

The Wonderland Gala was being held at the St. James hotel in Georgetown. It had snowed again, and most of the city was covered in the light dusting of snow on top of the previous week's fall, adding new glints of light in the dusk through the long windows.

Lucy stood looking out of one, trying to figure out what direction the window faced. She wore a cocktail dress of tawny gold angora wool with a square cut neckline that offered up a nice view of her cleavage. Too nice, Hank had objected playfully, and she enjoyed his slight possessiveness in escorting her to the soiree.

At the moment though, she stood and rubbed her arms, acutely aware of her nearly bare wrists. All her bangles were gone, sitting on the dresser back at the mansion, and the only jewelry she wore now was a heavy cuff of copper with a stylized thunderstorm symbol on it, a gift from her grandfather upon her medical school graduation.

It was an odd sensation not to have her other bracelets, and Lucy felt slightly uncomfortable without them. She kept her gaze on the window, trying hard to ignore the caterers passing behind her with trays of champagne. Someone sauntered closer. Lucy caught a whiff of Cheval Noir cologne along with freshly tailored wool, old silk and bruises. Curious, she glanced over to spot a man in an impeccable suit, smiling at her, a drink in his hand.

"That's the Potomac," he told her in an amused voice. "Prime mosquito breeder for DC, although you can always find bigger bloodsuckers in the House and Senate."

Lucy laughed, despite herself, and turned to look at the man. He held out his free hand to her, his dimples deep. "Tony Stark."

"The Iron Man," she replied softly, reaching out to shake. His palm was slightly callused, and the scent of scabs and pain hung faintly around him. "You need a couple of Tylenol three and forty-eight hours of bed rest, Mr. Stark."

"All that from just a handshake?" he murmured, looking wary and weary.

"I'm _that _good," Lucy assured him, adding, "Lucy San Marcos. _Doctor_ Lucy San Marcos."

"Doctor," Tony echoed, "that explains it, sure. Psychic medicine?"

"Pediatrics. I don't think your armor has adequate padding. Get gel-filled; it will dissipate the force of direct blows and insulate you better."

"Yeah, that was just what I was thinking. Let's dance and discuss it a bit more, what do you say?"

She laughed, but Stark was serious and gently guided her out towards where the band played, shifting her into an easy foxtrot to the music. Lucy looked around for Hank and spotted him on the other side of the room, engaged in a conversation with two men who looked scholarly. His animation was evident, and Lucy smiled, turning her attention back to Stark, who was watching her keenly.

"You're here with McCoy." It wasn't a question, but Lucy nodded anyway. Stark managed a dramatic sigh, but it was mostly for show and made her laugh.

"I would ask what he's got that I haven't got, but frankly I'm afraid of the answer."

"He looks cute in a lab coat," Lucy replied. "And I'm a sucker for a hairy chest."

"I could tell," Stark nodded with good-natured resignation. Before either of them could say anything more, Lucy breathed in a scent that startled her. She looked up as Hank stood there, his smile gracious, but his gaze steely.

"Stark. How kind of you to entertain Doctor San Marcos."

"Actually, she's entertaining _me _at the moment," Stark replied breezily. "She's got a great pair of . . . eyes. Hazel smoked by a campfire."

"Her eyes are amber with hints of gold and green in their beautiful depths, and I think your dance has now come to an end," Hank rumbled pleasantly.

Stark graciously stepped back from Lucy and made a courtly bow over one of her hands, lifting his head just enough to flash a quick wink at her before turning to Hank. "Yeah, I think so. Doctor, a pleasure."

"Likewise," Lucy nodded, her dimple visible. "And I was serious about that Tylenol."

"On my to-do list," Stark acknowledged and sauntered off.

Lucy glanced up at Hank, who was watching the other man. "All right, what was _that _all about, Henry Phillip McCoy?"

"Stark . . . is a womanizer," Hank explained flatly. "Given who he is, the media tend to flock to him like flies to . . ."

" . . . honey?" Lucy supplied. "So this was all about protecting me from media exposure?"

"Of course," Hank replied quickly. He tried to look innocent and concerned, but Lucy arched an eyebrow at him and he sighed. "That and his . . . reputation."

"Oh Hank," Lucy laughed softly. "The man is _not_ my type in the least, and given how injured he is right now, I doubt he's going to stay long or sleep with anyone tonight. From the smell of him he needs pain killers, sports cream and a hot water bottle."

"He did seem to give up a bit quickly," Hank nodded.

"Pain will do that," Lucy agreed, and reached out, her hand resting lightly on the sleeve of Hank's suit. "Come on, let's see if there are any more of those little cheese puff things we can nab."

"Excellent idea."

They found a friendly caterer and ate a bit while Hank told her all about his discussion with the two Norwegian scientists. Lucy smiled at his obvious enthusiasm, and felt better listening to a convoluted explanation about mutant gene research. Hank had so much animation, and even though she only understood the bare bones of the topic, she smiled and nodded in all the right places.

"And . . . I'm . . . hogging the conversation," Hank wound down, looking sheepish. "I apologize, dear heart. Sometimes my interests get the better of me."

"It's all right, Hank. The subject's important to you, and you're cute when you're all animated," Lucy assured him.

He gave her a wry, grateful smile and took her empty glass. "Let me get you more punch."

"Thank you," Lucy murmured, watching him go. She looked around, noting the room had filled up, and although there were more dancers out on the floor, Tony Stark was no longer in sight.

Lucy was keenly aware of all the liquor; her nose caught the scents of champagne everywhere, along with wine and mixed drinks here and there punctuated with the tang of olives or fruity sweetness of cherries. The alcohol burned her nose, even over the distance, and she rubbed her hands together in an attempt to distract herself.

"Excuse me," a woman interrupted her thoughts. "Is that a Dior? Your dress, I mean."

"Um, no. It's from New Mexico," Lucy replied.

"I _love_ the color," the woman mused. She was compact in a long gown of bright red, with her dark hair in a pixie cut. "Makes you look very exotic."

"Thanks," Lucy murmured. The woman smelled of Joy perfume and wine; Chablis, by the scent of it.

"You're Native American, aren't you?" the woman commented, cocking her head a bit. "New Mexico and all?"

"Yes," Lucy admitted, feeling reluctant to do it. The woman was eyeing her now, blue eyes sharp.

"Thought so," came the satisfied reply. "Anyway, I saw you talking to Tony Stark earlier. Hell of a flirt, isn't he?"

"He . . . was charming," Lucy replied. She tried to be polite, but the woman was getting on her nerves. Something about her was too sharp; almost brittle.

"Charming like a wolf," the woman snorted. "I turned him down earlier then realized he was making the rounds. Don't take him personally, you know? The man is more libido than brains sometimes. God, _most _of the men in this room are the same way."

"Oh there are a few that are a bit more," Lucy protested, glancing around for Hank.

"A few," the woman agreed, grudgingly. "But not many, including my ex-boyfriend. It's awkward to run into him, but inevitable I suppose. God, speak of the devil---Hank, what a surprise!"

Lucy blinked, trying to catch up as Hank approached them, his gaze on the woman next to her, his expression unreadable. But his scent was crystal-clear to Lucy, and the hair went up on the back of her neck as she breathed in the singed fur smell of Hank's controlled anger.

"Trish," was all he said, the name clipped and short.

"Oh stop it," Trish replied, her voice low and slightly amused. "We can be childish or we can be grown-up about this, Hank. Let's choose the latter, hmmm?"

"I prefer not to be pushed defensively into either position," Hank replied. "Nor did I realize you were invited here tonight."

"I _do _socialize," Trish replied, her smile patient. "And it's been a while, Hank. I know we were both were out of line and I'd like to get past all that, okay? No point in carrying grudges, right?"

Lucy tried to edge away, but a single glance from Hank pinned her to the spot. He looked almost . . . amused. "To bear a grudge would be to imply I still cared about your perceptions of me, Trish, and assure you, that's far from the case. I have, as the saying goes, moved on."

"Good," Trish replied, although her arch tone implied she didn't believe a word of it. "I'm glad."

Lucy cleared her throat; Trish looked over at her, slightly startled.

"Oh my gosh I forgot you were there—sorry! I'm Trish Tilby—yes, _that_ Trish Tilby of NCBC. And you are . . ?"

"Doctor Lucy San Marcos," Lucy murmured softly. Hank handed her a glass of punch and Trish's brows drew together as she noted the gesture.

"Ohh . . . I take it you two know each other?" The sharp scent of jealousy wafted past Lucy's nose; she caught Hank's gaze and saw that he smelled it as well. Carefully Lucy adjusted her pheromones to the soothing fragrance of cotton and carnations.

"Doctor San Marcos is here with me," Hank replied, not bothering to look at Trish. Lucy could see his discomfort; smell his anxiety.

"Well, that's . . . nice," Trish managed, her tone falsely bright. "Hank, may I have a word with you . . . in private?"

Lucy nearly laughed into her cup of punch as Hank pretended to consider Trish's demand, his gaze benign but firm when he finally shifted it to the other woman.

"I think not," he finally replied. "One of the exhilarating freedoms gained in the end of a poor relationship is the dissolution of obligations and courtesies, Trish. The simple truth is that I have nothing more to say to you, nor do I have any desire to hear whatever it is you wish to tell me in public _or_ in private."

At this snub, Trish laughed, a forced, slightly bitter sound as she turned to look at Lucy. "Stubborn as ever. God, I hope you know what you're getting into, Lisa."

"_Lucy," _Hank corrected, ice in his voice.

"Excuse me," Trish murmured without looking at him. "Lucy. Let me be the first to warn you he's not as charming as he'd like you to believe, but you'll learn. God knows_ I_ did."

Lucy fought her anger, and let her scent shift as she spoke, her voice low. "I've already learned a lot of things from Doctor McCoy." A warm and heady bouquet of sensual musk radiated from her as she managed a small smile, and she noted when it reached Trish's nose.

The other woman shifted, her expression a mix of irritation and regret. "So--what did you say you were a doctor of?" came her slightly haughty question.

Lucy let her smile deepen. "Pediatrics." She pressed a palm to her abdomen and glanced at Hank lovingly. "Very fortunate, we think."

Caught off-guard, both Trish and Hank stared at her.

Hank recovered quickly, blinked, and moved closer to Lucy, taking on a theatric expression of chagrined pride. "Yes indeed. Point in fact, I should be getting you to bed, my dear."

Lucy gave a sweet little nod, sliding her arm into the crook of Hank's. "Mmm-hmmmm."

"C-congratulations," Trish managed, choking slightly on the word.

"Thank you," Lucy replied quietly. "I _do_ hope you'll keep this quiet though—it's still possible I may miscarry, so I'm trying to avoid the limelight. I'm sure someone as famous as you understands what all the stress that the unwanted attention of the media can bring to bear on a delicate situation like this. I had to practically _beg _Hank to bring me here tonight."

"And I do think it's time we were leaving," Hank murmured, his gaze both attentive and tender. "The hour grows late."

"Uh, yeah . . ." Trish managed, still slightly dazed. Hank carefully escorted Lucy away and towards the door. They picked up their coats from the coat check, and left for the parking garage, making their way to Hank's Lincoln town car.

Hank held the door for her, and then got in himself on the driver's side. As he put the key into the ignition, both he and Lucy spoke at the same time, saying the same thing.

"We need to talk," they chimed together.


	18. Chapter 18

Lucy laughed, the sound both amused and slightly dry. "Jinx."

"Lucy, much as I enjoyed giving Ms. Tilby a well-deserved comeuppance, had I _known _what you were going to do . . ." Hank began solemnly.

"Would you have stopped me?"

Hank paid the parking and drove past the booth before replying. "No, but it would have been nice to have been in on the ruse."

"She was being rude and condescending," Lucy sighed, "and I figured it was one of the few things that would shut her up. I was right, too."

"Yes," Hank rumbled, "That was apparent. I think you took a few years off of _me_ as well, though."

Lucy shot him a sidelong glance. "Because I intimated you were a virile stud? That's hardly an exaggeration."

"The stud appellation I can argue about; it's the virility that stuns me," Hank explained gently. "That adjective is a portal to a discussion we have not yet had."

"Yeah, well I figured it wasn't a topic you were going to be very positive about," Lucy murmured glumly. "So I thought I'd indulge myself in a little wishful thinking there."

Hank gave a little chuff, the sound gusting between his bottom fangs. "You will be . . . a wonderful mother, Lucy. You have all the best nurturing instincts in the world. I have no doubts on that front in the least."

"Yes, and here comes the big 'but,'" she rolled her eyes, even as a small grin crossed her face. "To quote PeeWee Herman, 'everyone has a big but."

"I'm trying to have a mature discussion here and you're bringing in PeeWee Herman?" Hank snorted. "I'm insulted."

"You're stalling, my love. Just come out and say what I know you're going to say," Lucy shot back quietly. "You don't want to have a family."

"I _do _want to have children," Hank countered, gripping the steering wheel a bit more tightly. "Stop making assumptions, please."

Lucy blinked, taken aback by his quiet tone. "You do?"

"Wanting that comes naturally. More so since you came into my life," Hank sighed. "Surprised?"

"Yes," Lucy murmured honestly. "Hank . . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put words in your mouth, but you've never talked to me about this, never said a word, so . . ."

"Not _all _your assumptions are wrong, dear heart."

She craned her head to the left to stare at him, finally speechless.

Hank managed a grin at that, savoring its rarity before adding, "Nevertheless, 'wanting' and 'doing' are very separate drives, Lucylove. Wanting a thing doesn't automatically mean it becomes the wisest course of action to undertake. Not even when it comes in a package as tempting and wonderful as you."

"Yes, yes, flawlessly logical, Spock," Lucy snorted, her expression soft. "Now get to the _real_ issue, as if I didn't know."

"It's too . . . risky, Lucy, for all sorts of reasons. I've undergone no fewer than three mutations so far in my life, all of them taking me further from the human template each time. Who knows what sort of genetic legacy I may be passing on to our children at this point?"

The words hung heavily in the quiet car, and neither Lucy nor Hank spoke for a while. The bands of light from the streetlamps crossed along the body car as they drove on, and finally Lucy sighed. "Hank . . . I understand your concerns, probably better than anyone else. Not only am I a mutant myself, I've worked with young mutants for nearly a decade now, and yes, there are some risks and heartaches and terrors in not knowing what might happen."

"And here's _your _rebuttal," Hank murmured, shooting her a sidelong glance of patient affection. She stiffened a little and he could see her debate about whether to be annoyed or amused at his comment.

She sighed instead. "But that doesn't stop me from wanting to have a family, Hank. From wanting to get pregnant, or adopt and raise children."

Hank blinked. "Adopt?"

"Well certainly," Lucy replied with an earnest smile. "It's not the process but the product that counts, right? Not that the process isn't a hell of a lot of fun---"

"—the process is sublime," Hank murmured, "a physical, spiritual, emotional pinnacle of joy, my love. Let's not discount the process, but yes, I understand that the product has a great deal of merit as well. And *should* of course, even if it's not the product of _our,_ er, particular process. Did that make any sense?"

"Yes," Lucy assured him. "Selfishly, I'll admit the idea of being impregnated by you has a lot of appeal, my darling, but if you have doubts, then we can always test, and see precisely what we're dealing with. I wouldn't be adverse to that."

"Testing," Hank echoed, his voice slow and curious. "You're serious."

"About this, yes. I just never quite knew how to . . . bring it up," came her soft little chuckle. "It's not easy to toss into casual conversation, you know."

"Agreed," Hank gave a nod. "But it's generally further down the line in a courtship, if we're going by the traditional timeline."

"It is, but in this case, I feel a push to circumvent the conventional patterns, Hank. You love me; scent never lies, and the knowledge that you do does my soul good. My scent tells you the same, and this love goes deeper than I can consciously control. Such a thing is rare, and a little frightening," Lucy admitted softly, her voice shaking a bit.

Hank reached one big hand over and took hers, finding the natural grip easily even as he drove. "I know. We are unconventional people caught up in a world that sets standards for courtship we don't, or can't, generally follow. Nonetheless, I would like to at least propose to you and be accepted before we start having children. If only for my mother's sake."

"And Aggie's," Lucy laughed softly. "She'd say it doesn't matter, but I know she'd be pleased if things went in the right order."

"Aggie as well," Hank acknowledged with a wry grin. "It _was_ in the game plan, Lucylove; I hope you're aware of that."

"Beating you to the punch is fun."

"Proposing is fine. Getting pregnant without me is a no-no."

"You're essential to the process," Lucy assured him, laughing. "You and all your genetic goodness."

They arrived at the parking structure for Hank's townhouse; he pulled in and parked, his expression a cross between amusement and thoughtfulness. "I suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to propose to you right now Lucy; however, the ring is upstairs in my sock drawer."

"Since we were heading in that direction anyway . . . ." she murmured, her words trailing off.

Hank came around, scooped her up out of the passenger seat and lightly carried her into the townhouse over her laughing objections. Lucy knew she wasn't difficult or heavy for a man who regularly bench-pressed close to a ton even on his worst day, but for the look of the thing she protested anyway.

He ignored her splutters, stopping periodically to nuzzle her face and kiss Lucy everywhere but her mouth in a slow, sweet tease that left them both keenly aware of each other. Hank loved the feel of the velour of her dress, the squeezable sweetness of her ass and the glitter, dark and mysterious in her eyes.

Hank carried her up the stairs and brought her into the bedroom. The room was dark, but the glow from the hall spilled in through the door and lent their profiles a gleam in the muted shadows.

"You are . . ." he whispered, and stopped, not sure what simile or metaphor could possibly encompass all the aspects Lucy held. The adjectives piled up in his thoughts: complicated, sensual, frustrating, sweet, intelligent, solitary, wise, frightening, loving, talented, compassionate, infuriating, determined—

" . . . essential," Hank finished, "you have moved me from a two-dimensional life into one filled with new depths, one richer in both the tangible and intangible, Luyu Ofelia San Marcos, and what I desire most in it is to be yours and for you to be mine."

Her hot little breath brushed his face as her hands came up to slither into the fur around the back of his neck. "I am my love's and my love is mine," Lucy whispered urgently. "Always, Henry Phillip McCoy."

The shiver down his spine made him shudder; the sweet emotion flowed through him and Hank brushed his mouth against hers. "Please marry me."

"Yes."

"Excellent answer. I will do my utmost to live up to that honor, my heart's treasure." As he spoke, Hank gently laid Lucy on the bed, the two of them in the dark now, still entwined but neither quite sitting nor lying. Lucy clung to him, kissing his nose and cheeks, her lips warm against the fine fur there. He felt her tears, hot and damp as they wet his own face; Hank kissed them tenderly.

"This is—"

"The good kind of crying, yes," Lucy assured him with a wet little chuckle. "Definitely the good kind." She slid her hands along his big frame, working his buttons open, groping with a loving and single-minded intent that amused Hank.

"I sense you want me," he murmured, his voice bemused.

"What gave it away? My fingers here . . . or maybe _here?"_

"Oh _there,_ very definitely," Hank managed breathlessly. "My word, you're quite the . . . manipulator."

"Less talking, more undressing, please," Lucy urged, and her tone brooked no argument. Not that Hank wanted to offer any; his own attention was now on matters in hand rather than on mind.

It didn't take long to divest Lucy of her finery; Hank did it slowly, giving her garments and body the same reverential treatment, delighting in making her squirm.

"Patience," he crooned in a deep whisper. "Good things come to those---"

"—Shhhh," Lucy replied, pushing him back onto the bed and slithering up along his warm and furry form. "Speak to me with no words, Hank."

He looked up at her over him, reaching to brush back her curly hair from her face and smiled.

It was quiet, and the most uniquely _serious_ lovemaking Hank could ever remember indulging in. Erotic, yes—Lucy was always that—but infusing the whole of their kisses and nips and touches lay a beautiful sense of deliberation that Hank found intensely arousing.

He savored her wholehearted caresses, and when she rose up on her knees to straddle him, Hank caught her waist, bracing her as she guided him between her damp thighs.

"You are mine," he murmured, voice slow and deep, "and I am yours---" So saying, Hank surged up, thrusting into Lucy and feeling the wild heat of her around him.

She arched up, her expression fierce and solemn at the same time. "It is so---" Lucy whispered, and she dropped her hands on his chest.

They rocked together, a blend of muscle, fur and skin, melding so well that for a long time neither of them wanted to let go of the other, and Hank took a glorious moment to savor Lucy's climax before his own flared closely after hers, their pleasure blending again in the lovely, intimate union.

*** *** ***

Logan sat in the big chair in the Rec room, one eye on the doorway. The heavy volume sat propped against one thigh and he had one finger wedged inside marking his place, but his attention wasn't on the prose.

He held his grim expression, although it was difficult. The whispered arguing out in the hall told him exactly _who _was still up and trying to get an early peek at the gifts. Logan couldn't truly blame them; the stacks were impressive, but rules were rules, and if certain people didn't get their butts back into bed, he'd have to haul them there himself.

"Unless you three out there are _bleedin' _you better be in bed," Logan growled. His words were more Scrooge than Santa, but effective; a sudden scamper and thumping of doors finally brought a grin to his stern features. A stray giggle let him know that certain young ladies weren't taking his threat seriously, but that was permitted too.

It was Christmas Eve, and everyone was in a fairly good mood.

Logan glanced down at his book, memorized the page number and closed it. He breathed in the deep, sweet scent of pine and relaxed a bit, pleased with the tree he'd cut and hauled. It was a lovely Douglass Fir, nearly ten feet tall, filling the far corner of the Rec Room and lending a stately presence above to the presents below.

He relaxed a bit in the serenity and shifted his glance out the window where the night was clear. Snow was predicted by morning, but for the moment, the view down the long front lawn was clear.

Tomorrow, he'd hitch up the sleigh and haul whoever wanted to go out to the end of the drive and back, just for the hell of it. The horses could use the exercise, and most of the kids had never been in a sleigh anyway.

Another sound caught his ear and he heard the professor's wheelchair roll in. Turning, Logan flashed him a quick smirk, and Xavier nodded, a twinkle in his eye. "Lonely is the vigil on Christmas Eve."

"I dunno about lonely, given the lurkers out there," Logan replied gruffly, but the other man caught his amused expression and his smile deepened as he rolled his chair closer.

"It's been a while since we've had students so . . . . young," Xavier acknowledged. "I find that both refreshing and worrying, Logan."

"Yeah," came the response. Logan cocked his head and gave a gusty sigh. "Makes us more than just teachers sometimes."

"Yes," Xavier agreed. "It's rather disconcerting to consider we are surrogate family as much as guardians and mentors to our charges here. It adds a degree of enormous responsibility."

Logan shrugged. "Better to be here with people who understand you're not a freak than out where the _real_ monsters are, professor. Better to learn about fighting with teachers and time-outs than in dark alleys against assholes with baseball bats."

"Succinctly put, if somewhat . . . blunt," Xavier chuckled humorlessly. "I agree, Logan. And while it's a responsibility I accept wholeheartedly, it's not one I would mandate on anyone else."

Logan locked gazes with Xavier, and scowled very slowly. "Nobody's forcing anything on me; I'm here because it's the right place to be. When I need to go, I go—that's part of what makes it easy to come back. Yeah that kids are getting' younger, but somebody's got to show'em how to survive and do the_ right_ thing in this world. I'm not a saint, not by a long shot, but I still know good from bad, Professor."

Xavier smiled, a gentle and compassionate expression on his face. "Thank you, Logan. You've just re-affirmed my faith in the season."

Logan gave a pleased grunt. He slowly set his book down, heading to the ornate mahogany bar. "Yeah? Then how about a brandy for the both of us while we keep the sneaky peekers away?"

*** *** ***


End file.
